Branded Sanctuary (8 page)

“I won‟t let that happen.”

He slid an arm around her back, bringing himself so close there were mere inches between them. Just as she was steeling herself for him pressing against her, possibly pushing her up against the Jeep, he leaned down and swept her legs so he was cradling her in his arms, a movement so smooth it was as if he‟d levitated her into the position, her body naturally flowing with the movement of his.

Wondering, she slid her arm around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“Wow,” she managed.

He smiled, but his features were somber. “I‟m staying tonight. I‟ll stay on the couch or I‟ll sleep in the Jeep, but I‟m staying.”

She didn‟t reply, only laid her head on his shoulder and let him take her inside the house. He shifted her easily as he handled the opening and closing of the door. She liked being carried by him. She was usually more active in her physical interaction.

Typically, a guy ended up carrying her because she‟d done a little hop and wrapped her legs around his waist, so he could waltz her to the bed, or maneuver her for a kiss in chest-high ocean waters, or wherever they happened to be for the pleasurable, ultimate moment.

But despite what she and Brendan had just done—or rather, she‟d done to him—

she wasn‟t ready for sex. This, being carried by him, was a welcome kind of intimacy, however. As if by lifting her off her feet he was simultaneously lifting any burdens, letting her drop them as she‟d dropped the mask. She wanted to lose herself in simple delight.

He took her to her bedroom, moving slowly in semi-darkness. He didn‟t turn on any lights, which she also liked, using just the early evening light to guide his way. It kept the mood soft, easy…dreamlike. No truths highlighted by harsh light.

“I want to undress you for bed. May I have that honor?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Setting her down on the mattress, he guided her T-shirt over her head. His gaze flickered over the lace bra she wore and then he stepped in closer, reaching behind her so she was in the loose circle of his arms as he unhooked the bra.

“You‟ve done that to lots of girls, hmm?”

He shook his head, but slid it off her arms and set it to the side before he knelt, giving her breasts a lingering, appreciative look that warmed her. Taking off her sneakers, he caressed her sensitive arches. Moving his hand to her waist, he tugged the drawstring loose. Easing onto her elbows then her back, she stared at the ceiling. A crystal mobile hung there, smoky and rose quartz, selenite, black tourmaline. They picked up the dim window light, throwing off dull gleams of color. Curling his fingers into the waistband, he worked the pants off her hips. The rustle indicated they were being folded and put to the side.

She didn‟t realize she was holding her breath until the pad of one finger traced the low waistband of her silky swatch of panties. Followed the crease of her thigh, then crossed over her pubic bone, a gentle warning of his intent. His thumbs hooked the sides and he slid them off, moving in sync with her helpful wriggle to get them free from under her bottom.

Now she lay naked, and she knew the nerves were going to start again. But he didn‟t lean over her, didn‟t suffocate her. Instead, he stayed kneeling as he had throughout and closed his hand over her foot, bringing it up so he could tease her sole with his mouth.

It caught in her weirdly twisting mind, a really bad Haiku poem in the making.
He
enclosed her sole / A substitute for her soul / Since her soul fears him.
He had to settle for her foot, for a homonym. A facsimile, something that wasn‟t what he really wanted. Word games. All of it games.

A moment before she‟d been apprehensive of his more intimate touch, but now the sensual caress on her foot, her ankle, made her upper body cold and yearning for the same attention. “Brendan,” she murmured. “Come lay on me.” He rose. There was a clink as he unbuckled his belt again, the sound of it sliding free then dropping to the floor. At her curious glance, he brushed a light finger over her bare stomach. “So I don‟t hurt this soft skin.”

Putting a knee on the bed, he braced himself over her, a handsome silhouette with certain features highlighted. The gleam of a shoulder and eye, the plane of his jaw, the angle of his hip. Reaching up, she spread his shirt open wide, fanning her fingers over the firm musculature beneath. “You‟re not one of those workout freaks, are you?”

“If I am?”

Curling her hands in the loose fabric, she wrapped her knuckles in it so they disappeared in the cotton brushing his sides. “We won‟t suit. I‟m allergic to exercise unless it masquerades as something fun and unrelated to fitness nazi-ism.” His lips curved. “I like hiking and swimming, because I don‟t like sitting still too long. Doing laps helps me get into that mindless zone, gives my worries a break.”

“The Zen of YMCA Laps.” She found a smile inside herself and shyly shared it with him. “I can go with that. The Y‟s a place of great spiritual peace. And karaoke nights.” She tugged at his snort. “Why haven‟t you laid on me like I asked?”

“I‟m getting aroused again, Chloe.”

His impressive recovery time goaded the devil in her once more. She arched a brow. “Can you lay on me without doing anything about that, if I tell you that you can‟t?”

“Yes. It won‟t stop me from getting harder. In fact,” his voice dropped, so it shivered along her nerves as his gaze slid down her face, touched her breasts and the slope of her bare belly, “It‟s likely to make things worse.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Can you hold back, no matter how hard you get?” Was she
trying
to torture the poor guy? But she didn‟t take it back as his gaze returned to hers and held.

“If you command me to. And if that‟s what you want.”

In answer, she pulled at him again. This time he started to lower his body onto hers, but in an unexpected and pleasurable move, he slid an arm beneath her, palmed one buttock and shifted their bodies up the mattress so her head could be on the pillow, comfortable. Then he brought his body all the way down, readjusting his arms so his elbows were propped on either side of her head.

Bliss.
When his weight settled on her, it was perfect. Holding her down, pressed into the mattress, sheltered and anchored at once. Freeing her hands, she slid her palms with savoring delight down his bare back, following the line of his spine to the beginning rise of buttocks. As a result of his removal of the belt, the waistband rode lower on an ass she knew was delightfully bare. But when her palms brushed the small of his back, she found something the tail of his shirt had concealed in the Jeep.

She moved her fingers over it more carefully. “Is this a scar?”

“Yes.”

Something in his voice drew her gaze to his face. “It has a shape. I can‟t tell…”

“It‟s a brand. A
fleur de lis
design.”

Scarification. Marguerite had hired her from a body piercing jewelry kiosk in the mall, so body modification didn‟t bother her, but somehow she hadn‟t expected it for Brendan. He seemed so…straight laced, white knightish in a way. She hadn‟t yet seen evidence of tattoos, no piercings and he dressed with conservative fashion sense, his jeans and shirts good quality, enduring styles, not trend-trash types of stuff.

“It must have a special significance.”

“Yes. It does.”

When he met her gaze, she felt it, a wall. Suddenly, she felt a little trapped beneath his body, where a moment before it had felt so good. Secrets and shadows made the fit less comfortable. “You don‟t want to talk about it.”

“Chloe.” He framed her face. “I won‟t refuse to answer any question you ask, but I‟m requesting that you hold off on that one.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Why? For me, or you?”

Brendan shifted. “Both. You, because we‟re at the point it might scare you off, and me, because I don‟t want to scare you off. I like being with you too much.” She swallowed. The perfect moment was a balance between words spoken and things left unsaid. Change and dread often walked hand in hand. She could feel the bite of loneliness threatening, and she didn‟t want to feel that way with him.

“Okay,” she said. “But you have to sing to me. Whatever song I choose.” He raised a brow, his expression easing. “Is this payback for last night?”

“You bet your ass. And I‟m not reciprocating and singing something else. One moment of abject humiliation is more than enough.”

“One way only,” he promised. “My punishment for breaking the mood.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You didn‟t do that. That was me.” His fingers tightened on the sides of her face, stroking and awaking nerves that shimmered over her whole body, particularly the places that pressed against him.

“The brand is on my skin,” he reminded her. “Anything I do that makes you sad, frightened or lonely, should have consequences. I‟m willing to do anything to fix it.” Chloe traced his brow, feathering her fingertips through the fall of hair over it. “
I
Don’t Want to Close My Eyes,
the Aerosmith version.” He smiled, brushed a kiss across her lips. Chloe tightened her hand on his neck to increase the pressure and he obliged, pushing her into the bed, his cock pressed in sensual promise against her mons as he devoured her mouth. He could make a kiss into a slow rhythmic dance with circles of tongue, pressure of lips, his hand holding her face on the other side and fingers stroking. In minutes she was rubbing against him in instinctive need. Her legs rose, clasping high on his hips. The barrier of denim between them helped dissolve some of her unease, reminding her that he was her toy to play with as she wished. Toys were safe, right?

It was a mean thought, an ugly side of her taking advantage of what he‟d just offered, more than anyone should offer another human being, really. The guilt increased as he raised his head and she saw how much he could offer her. It proved how shallow a vessel she truly was right now, because she knew she‟d waste most of what he gave her, unable to contain it. Her walls were too brittle to hold a gift of such weight.

“Sshh,” he murmured. His fingers were at the corners of her eyes, collecting the tiny pair of tears she didn‟t know had escaped. “I‟m whatever you need me to be, Chloe, as long as you need me. I won‟t ask for more than you can give.” Even if she wanted and needed him to demand more? She didn‟t know how to say that, though. She wasn‟t even really sure what it meant.

“Sing to me,” she said, a soft plea. She needed him to sing, and to sing that song specifically. She wanted to hear that poignant wish that the moment between them never had to end. That she‟d never have to close her eyes and give herself to the cold, deadly dreams of the reality she couldn‟t face.

In the long, searching pause that followed, her heart dipped into apprehension.

Whether or not he asked for more than she could give, she feared he already saw more than she could bear him to know.

Then he began the first yearning bars. Closing her eyes, she held on, his untrained voice soothing her nerves like a lullaby.

They lay in the bed and talked for four hours, as if they hadn‟t talked most of the previous night. She learned more about his drama classes and swimming, and gave him anecdotes about Tea Leaves and her comfortable, large family who lived up in New England. She talked about the wide variety of characters she‟d met through her job at the piercing kiosk, as well as a hundred other small adventures.

He listened, let her go on like an idiot, but it was as if a dam had broken. For the first time in a long while, she could talk about anything and nothing. She felt no pressure to act like nothing was wrong, covering the obvious fact it was with inane, babbling chatter. Nor did she feel like he was ignoring it for his own comfort. Rather, she felt his understanding and acceptance of where she was right now, giving her complete ownership of the choice of when to talk about it. It made her feel almost…free.

Of course she realized the miracle of it was possible for a couple reasons. They were here, quiet and sequestered from the rest of the world, no outside triggers to those dangerous poison clouds of memory drifting inside her. The other reason was the man himself.

Amid the conversation, they‟d pulled together a meal. She still had a loaf of the French bread she‟d made a couple days before. With that and some honey butter, a few sliced fresh tomatoes he‟d gone out and pulled from her garden, he‟d seemed perfectly happy with the light fare. They‟d eaten it in her bed, keeping the lights off.

There‟d been more kissing. During the meal and after. Lots of kissing, until she thought she could have come from that alone. But stretching out and facing one another, her still naked and him with his jeans on, her toes playing on the denim over his calves, they made a new game of it. Who could do the hottest kiss without moving the lower body or using the hands below the throat. Goddess, he‟d brushed her collarbone once and she reacted as violently as if he‟d touched her clit, making him groan fiercely in response, though he‟d kept his hands there, not taking advantage of the moment.

When they finally agreed to call it a draw, they lay side by side, hands tangled in a loose knot on the mattress, their unreleased bodies damp with perspiration, touched by the breeze through the open window. Shudders twitching the muscles so they‟d grinned at one another like spasmodic children. As she closed her eyes, Brendan‟s fingertips whispered over her mouth, and she knew the look lingering on his face was far from that of an adolescent‟s. A man‟s desire, a man‟s emotions.