A Brutal Tenderness (24 page)

“Decoy,” I say simply.
“Huh.” Jewell bites her lip harder, nibbling at flesh I’d just
moved over, tasted, eaten . . .
She glances at me and, seeing my expression, rolls her eyes.
“Guilty.” I throw up my hands, palms out. “You caught me.”
“Is that all you think about?” Jewell asks, but her tone is
back to playful, mirth dancing in those deep emerald eyes.
I think about it for . . . oh, about three seconds. “Yeah.”
Jewell leans forward and kisses my mouth, then lies back
down, leaving me cold with her absence.
How will I ever feel warm if she’s not there to heat my
body? I wonder.
I shake away the random thought, concentrating on the
conversation instead of how I want to go again. With her.
Forever.
“So . . . are you from here?” Jewell asks.
I shake my head.
Jewell’s body tenses. “Then you live in another state?” Her
bottom lip trembles again and my eyes move to her mouth.
I nod, saying nothing.
“You’ll be moving back to where you’re from, where your
job is?” she asks softly, her hands knotting where they’d been
loose moments before.
My eyes shift back to her bent head. “My division is based
out of Anchorage. But I was based out of Omaha at the time of
Faith’s death.”
“Oh,” Jewell says in a small voice.
I lift her chin with my finger, those eyes fill with her tears.
“I’m not leaving, Jewell.”
“No?” she asks, the tears welling but none falling, they stand
there, begging to escape.
I shake my head, pressing a kiss on her forehead and one on
each eyelid, the wetness of her tears salt against my lips.
“My home is here.” I place a palm on her chest, her heart
beating underneath my hand. We look into each other’s eyes.
“Here?” she asks, putting her small hand over my large one.
I nod my head, once . . . slowly.
“Wherever you are is home now, Jewell.”
Her tears soak my naked chest; they don’t bother me. I
recognize them for what they are.
Relief.
I recognize it because I share it alongside her.

However, I’ve never been great on nonverbal female cues,
not being a mind reader and all that bullshit.
I look up from the narrow wood board, one padded knee
wedging it in place, my hand on the soft mallet with another
sawed-off piece tight against the tongue.
Jewell looks over her shoulder at me, standing on tiptoe,
wearing slippers as opposed to pointe shoes, and scowls, her
nose crinkling in that cute way that makes me instantly think,
bedroom.
“No, Cas,” she says with recognition and a small smile. She
goes up on her tiptoes, down, up, down  .  .  . I watch her ass
clench, the small muscles of her calves rise like little balls.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to turn back to the boards
that await installation, nailing the floorboard tight against the
one before it with a solid whack of the mallet. I drive my knee
forward, stabilizing it as I hit the wood. I pause and my face
turns to her again, like a satellite come to orbit. Jewell moves
fluidly, the jerky motions of two months ago lost to tireless
practice, grace seeping in at the edges. Still, her face pinches
with a knee twinge, and I stand, slapping a board in reverse to
hold the face-nailed boards in place, keeping the run tight.
Words.
I hate words.
I hesitate. Plunking down the mallet, I run my hand over
my freshly sheared hair. I meet her stare and Jewell gives a
small huff, grabbing the barre, that I installed in this room for
her, for her dancing. It was an absolute deal breaker for me. I
told the realtor: Don’t bother showing me any houses that don’t
have a room I can make into a dance studio.
When you find the woman you love, not just any space will
do.
I want a home for her.
More, I want her heart to beat again. Her happiness is more
important than my own.
I step onto the newly laid wood floor, that corner of the
dance studio complete.
“You’re not supposed to be in here with your work boots,
Cas,” she reprimands me.
It’s so hot when she tries to tell me what to do.
Jewell forgets I can see her face in the mirror.
I come to stand behind her, seeing the flush on her face, the
want. And it isn’t from exercise.
“Tell you what,” I begin, pressing up behind her. Jewell
rises on her toes, facing the mirror, which runs floor to ceiling.
The barre is positioned at waist height, embedded in the sea of
seamless glass.
Jewell’s eyes meet mine, and she gives a soft gasp as my arm
snakes around her waist, the fingers of my other hand brushing
her nipple. It fills my palm in a pebble of flesh.
Hard and waiting.
“Talk to your parents. I’m sick of them calling all the time,”
I say against her skin, my fingers playing with her nipple like a
musical instrument. Her own selection plays in the background,
the soft notes filling the open space, echoing softly around us.
“No,” she says, and I pinch her nipple hard and she moans,
still on her toes as her head falls back against me, the knot of
her hair resting on my shoulder.
“You like?” I say, my voice muffled against her throat.
“You know I do,” she says, biting her lip. Her body is warm
from exercise and heats mine.
“Tell you what . . .” I say, my hand working lower. I know
I’ve done what I need when she sucks in her breath, my hand
buried against the thin material of her leotard as I split her
with my fingers.
Her arms move behind me and latch on to my neck as I
move against the material between her legs. I watch our bodies
married together in the mirror, my dark skin a contrast against
her fairness, her hair a flame against my neck.
“You agree to talk to them, and I’ll make you come . . . right
now,” I say so softly her eyes snap open to look at me.
“Here?” Jewell asks, her eyes filled with shyness.
Excitement.
I smile.
We stare at each other in the mirror and finally she nods.
“Hang on to the barre,” I command in a low growl. I tear off
my tool belt, letting it fall to the ground, carpenter’s pencils, my
tape, and a bunch of other shit clattering to the plywood side
of the floor.
Jewell leans forward, so tiny, so small.
Too short.
“Toes,” I say, breathless, dumping my jeans to my ankles.
Those lithe legs effortlessly lift her small body.
I gently move her legs farther apart.
“Look at me,” I demand.
Her eyes move to mine again in the mirror, dark with desire,
wide with uncertainty.
My Jewell likes surprises.
“Watch me while I fuck you, Jewell,” I grunt as my bare
cock moves against her ass still encased in ballet gear.
She does, her breaths coming quicker than any barre
exercise could have done.
I start at the bend of her neck, moving my hand down
her spine, and when I get to the crotch of her leotard I give
a mighty jerk and the material tears and she gasps, my finger
spearing her even as the material gives.
“Ah!” she gasps in a half grunt of surprise and pleasure, her
hips bearing backward against my hand.
Lust rolls in a wave of gooseflesh down my body, a riot over
my skin. “Look,” I command.
Her dazed eyes reach mine in the mirror and I plunge
inside her all the way, as she wraps me like slick velvet, the tip
of me kissing her womb.
“Ah!” Jewell barks in a throaty grunt, her knuckles bleeding
to white against the barre.
I take her hard, her body bouncing as my prick lifts her,
and we grind against each other in seamless unity. I wrap my
hand around her waist and bump against the back of her, Jewell
drops back against me, my superior leverage allowing gravity to
work with us.
I can tell when she gets close—Jewell’s eyes widen and all
that beautiful light skin flushes pink. It’s not something she can
hide, and I love seeing it. I jerk her against me and her hands
leave the barre, wrapping one forearm against her tits and one
around her waist, our gazes lock in the depthless mirror, my
tattoo against her nakedness like an obsidian brand.
I press my hips against her ass, my balls tight against her
entrance, and give a deep swivel and simultaneous thrust,
hitting that spot high and deep inside her, and Jewell stills for
one heartbeat . . . two. Then she howls in my ear; I wince from
the sound.
So piercing.
So fucking amazing.
And just like that I pour myself inside her, my essence, my
love . . . my life.
I live for her now.
We cling together in shattered silence, the memory of her
shrill cry of pleasured release hanging in the air between us,
around us.
Jewell’s sex pulses around me and I sway, holding my
ballerina, her shredded leotard decorating the floor I just laid,
our bodies still locked together.
Seconds become minutes. No words. Just our skin and
bodies together.
Jewell sighs in contentment, smiling up at me from my
arms. I rock her in place and she says, “Way to christen the
joint.” She smiles softly at me.
I nod, but words fail me, as they usually do.
Jewell’s used to it now. I look at our reflection in the mirror,
her nakedness cradled against me, beat-up ballet slippers and
nothing else.
Perfect.

Jewell looks perfect in my house. The hell with an interior
decorator, all I need is her. Jewell uses my phone as I sip coffee
I made in a French press. My only concession to sissified.
Besides weeping like a girl over Jewell while she lay bleeding
those five months ago.

I swallow as she paces back and forth and listen to her side
of the conversation.
When she’s nervous she nibbles on her bottom lip.
Bedroom.
Just that one word. It sure springs to mind a lot around her.
Among other things. I smile as I sip my coffee out of a mug
that reads, BALLERINAS BREAK THE BARRE.
“Yes, I understand,” Jewell says, her lip nowhere to be seen.
It’s disappeared inside her mouth.
“Mom?” she squeaks, giving me a panicked look.
I nod, raising the pink mug. I guess I look as ridiculous as I
assume and she gives the ghost of a smile. The terror of talking
to her mom for the first time in five months notching down at
the image of her badass FBI agent boyfriend holding her pink
ballerina mug.
“Okay . . . I will.” She nods slowly, then adds, “it was . . .
good to talk to you too.”
Jewell hits the End button and promptly bursts into tears.
Fuck.
I walk over to her, putting the mug down on the sundrenched countertop.
“Shhh, babe,” I say. Wrapping her against me, I stroke her
hair.
“I think . . .” she begins, then uses my T-shirt like a tissue,
drying her face of tears.
“Are you sad?” I ask, tipping her chin up. It seems like a
stupid question, but there are different kinds of tears and I’ve
learned to read hers.
“No,” she says in a tremulous voice. “I’m glad I spoke with
her.”
“What, then?”
Jewell begins to look away.
“Hey,” I say softly, wiping her nervous tears with the pads of
my thumbs.
Jewell meets my eyes.
“Who hid for two years?” I bend my face down to capture
her eyes, forcing her to look at me.
“Me,” she says softly.
“Who survived living in the same house as that fucking
psycho?”
“Me,” Jewell repeats in a whisper.
“Who’s going to live to dance another day?”This time, those
eyes meet mine with resolution, her chin kicks up and she
fights her natural shyness, her need to please.
And wins. “Me,” Jewell says with certainty.
“That’s my girl.” I swat her ass and she laughs through her
tears, scooting off to the bedroom.
I watch her, my eyes going half-mast. “Hey,” I say softly but
with an intensity that carries.
She turns back, her brow arched in question.
“Wanna fuck?”
Jewell grins. “Definitely.”
I pause, striding to her outside the bedroom door. I run a
hand down her arm, and her face tilts up to mine. “Jewell?”
“Yes?” she whispers.
“I love you.” I smile the vulnerable smile of the words.
Those. Three. Words.
She looks at me for a moment, then grabs my package,
giving it a gentle squeeze. “Show me.”
My hand smacks the side of the doorjamb, my breath
squeezing out of me in a tight whistle. “Okay.”

I sweep Jewell out of the car, our fancy dinner at Canlis a
perfect memory. What is even better is her mother’s number in
both our cells. I’ve made sure that Jewell will have closure there.
Gillian MacLeod left the former senator, and now they can
be free of the encumbrance and memories that her stepfather
would bring and just be mother and daughter again.

The drive consists of our shit-eating grins and long sighs.
Our wandering hands link as I drive with one hand on the
steering wheel.

I hug her to me when we exit the car, and she’s breathless.
“God, that was fucking amazing!” she shouts, and I laugh,
twirling her around.

“How do you feel, baby?” I ask, lips at her throat as we trip
up the wide steep stairs of our Green Lake bungalow.
“Light,” Jewell breathes in a happy whisper. The dinner with
her mother chases those shadows out of her eyes, giving her
some family back.
“That’s how I like it!” I say, jamming my key in the slot and
bumping the solid fir door open with the side of my ass. I scoop
Jewell up into my arms.
“Cas!” she half yells but chokes on her laughter.
I know Carlie worked her magic when Jewell’s laughter dies
in her throat and she looks around at my transformed house in
wonder.
I take a deep breath and turn with Jewell in my arms so I
can see the damage.
Damn, she’s done good.
Dozens of crystal bowls litter every surface of the low-slung
and understated architecture of the old Craftsman house. The
polished wood mantel holds flame-red roses, ten crystal bowls
filled with water hold roses in every stage of opening. Their
fragrance fills the air as vanilla candles softly burn, the wicks
dancing with the draft that infiltrates.
I let Jewell slide down my body and watch her reaction
closely. It was my idea, but I’m better at catching crooks than
creating romance, so I enlisted Carlie and together we made it
happen for Jewell.
Finally, I think her answer might be yes instead of no, so
I jump off that mental cliff where I usually just teeter on the
edge.
Jewell exhales in a shaky way, turning to me. “What . . . is
this, Cas?”
“I thought you could use something special.”
Her lips quirk. “It is . . . amazing.” Her eyes hold the sheen
of happiness. Any tears that fall won’t be caused by sadness.
“Your mom?” I ask, thinking about a future reconciliation
as I loosen my tie and jam my hands in the front of my slacks.
Jewell’s hand rises to her throat, floating there for a moment,
then she lets it fall at the hollow at the base of her neck, feeling
for her pulse. She looks at me and says quietly, “There’s still a
chance for us to have a relationship. She loves me.” Her voice
trembles ever so slightly at the realization.
I nod, I knew it could happen eventually. All of us need to
get past the savage drama of the event. We finally have. I move
my gaze to the only surface without rose bowls filled with
fragrant blooms.
Three crystal vases stand on the coffee table in a triangular
formation, a silver balloon in the middle. It hangs in the air,
suspended, and something light is tied to the end of the silver
ribbon attached to it. It glitters like a piece of shimmering ice,
glacial.
I look at Jewell, then tilt my head toward the stand of pale
lavender flowers.
In the haze from the candlelight, they appear silver.
Jewell’s eyes follow my movement, and she stands frozen.
Then, in torturous slow motion, Jewell turns back to me.
“What is that?” she asks with quiet intensity. I search eyes
the dark green of the forest, candlelight washing her like
burnished amber, and for the third time in my life I feel tears
burn for release.
The first were for Faith.
The second were for Jewell.
And now . . . it’s for joy.
I hold my emotions tightly, inside that place all men have,
guarded, secret . . . like an underground spring.
Jewell moves forward like she’s underwater toward the
symbol of my love, and I quietly follow. She reaches it,
stretching out her hand, then snatching it back.
I tense unbearably for a lingering fraction of time.
Her hand moves to her throat, her eyes to mine.
I reach out and unknot the tie and the balloon floats up to
the ten-foot ceiling, hanging above us like a moon made of
tinsel.
I kneel and Jewell gasps at my gesture.
I’m not the subservient type.
I can’t think of anything I won’t do for Jewell.
The tears slip out of her eyes, falling on my hands as I reach
for her left.
“Jewell,” I say, my eyes holding hers, the tears cascading
down her face and falling on my skin like warm happiness.
“Yes,” she whispers, though she knows.
The quiet stretches, and I let the moment swell, build . . .
lingering between us in the molten air.
“Be my wife,” I say. Then I look down at the polished wood
floor and suck in a huge breath. My eyes lift and I look at her
again.
I grab hope like a lifeline, the ground rushing up to meet
me as I jump.
“Please,” I add. My voice has a catch in it, and then suddenly
I’m sure she’ll say no.
She doesn’t.
I never land like I dread. Instead, those small arms that
come around me feel so strong.
So right.
I stand with Jewell in my arms, her face looking down at
me, my arms locked around her waist.
“Absolutely,” she says with a conviction that causes some of
that standing water in my eyes to fall. Jewell stares at my face,
mesmerized. I blink it away and smile.
Somehow her answer is so much better than yes.
I slip the ring on her finger and it fits perfectly.
It’s emerald cut, the facets hidden, the center appearing
without end, bottomless.
Like my love for her.
“It’s beautiful,” she says softly.
I feel crushingly lucky. “Like you,” I say automatically.
She shakes her head, and I open my mouth to defend what
I say, but Jewell presses a finger to my lips.
“No, Cas, like you.”
We let the candles burn out as we attend to other things.