By a Thread (19 page)

Once our supplies were gathered, we set out. We were on the far side of the island from the hotel, and according to Bria, this was the quiet part of Blue Marsh. The local folks rented out their fancy beach houses for exorbitant fees and went somewhere cooler for the summer, while the tourists moved in to get away from the problems that plagued them back home. For a few days, anyway. Too bad it wasn't working out that way for me.

It was still early in the season, and we passed only one other person—a woman playing with a small, sand-colored corgi along the
water's edge. Owen and I wandered about a mile from the house, stopping when we came to a small curve in the beach. The ocean rushed back into a hidden cove that slithered inward like a fat snake trying to wiggle its way inland. A small ridge of glossy black rocks ran along the back of the cove, separating it from the rest of the island. Beyond the rocks, I could see the cypress trees and tall, waving cattails of the island's boggy marshes.

Off to my right, the ridge rose to a sharp, jagged peak, and a small lighthouse clung to the edge of the rocks there. The lighthouse had been black at one time, with thin white stripes running down its sides, although all the paint had long since faded to various shades of gray. From the way the structure was boarded up, it had been abandoned long ago and left to someday fall into the ever-encroaching sea.

We strolled into the cove. The ridge of rocks and the lighthouse provided a bit of shade, making the air seem a bit cooler back here, and the waves muted to more of a misty, refreshing spray. I spread out the blankets while Owen planted the umbrella in the sand, then opened it. I pulled off my sneakers and socks, sat down on the edge of one of the blankets, hugged my knees to my chest, and dug my bare toes into the warm, crusty golden sand. Owen plopped down beside me, kicking off his own shoes and socks, and leaned back on his elbows. We sat there and watched the water foam and froth for several minutes.

“So,” Owen finally said. “Donovan Caine.”

“Yeah, Donovan.”

A few seagulls and terns
with fluffy white feathers circled overhead, although the constant rush of the ocean mostly drowned out their hoarse, hungry cries.

“I had no idea that he was in Blue Marsh,” I said. “When Donovan left Ashland, he didn't tell me where he was going, and I didn't try to find him. You know that.”

Owen nodded.

I drew in a breath. Now came the hard part. “I know that I should have told you last night that I'd seen him again, that he was Callie's fiancé. But I wasn't sure how to tell you. I was still trying to figure out how I felt about seeing him again.”

“And have you? Figured out how you feel about him?”

I shrugged. “Nothing's changed between us. I still kill people, and he still hates me for it. Same old, same old.”

“Yes,” Owen agreed. “Same old, same old. Right down to the way that he looks at you.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “Donovan might be engaged to Callie, might have put a ring on her finger and promised to love her forever—hell, he might even
really
love her forever. But he was looking at you the whole time that we were in her office.”

I thought that Donovan had done a rather splendid job of not looking at me at all, but I didn't say anything.

“He still wants you,” Owen said in a hard, blunt tone. “Even now he's thinking about making a play for you, but I'll be damned if he's going to have you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

“You're damn right I'm jealous,” Owen growled. “Because I saw how you used to look at
him
, and he didn't even realize it. But more than that,
I saw how much it hurt you when Donovan turned his back on you when he realized that you'd survived the collapse of Tobias Dawson's coal mine.”

I couldn't help but flinch. Things had not gone well when I'd tried to kill Dawson at a party that Mab had thrown. The dwarf had gotten the drop on me instead and knocked me out. I'd woken up in one of Dawson's coal mines—the one with all the diamonds in it that ran right under Warren Fox's land. Using my Ice and Stone magic, I'd caved in the mine—hell, the whole damn mountain—on top of Dawson and his men, killing them.

After that, I'd managed to crawl and claw my way out of the collapsed mine with a little bit of skill and a whole lot of luck. When I'd finally made it back to civilization, I'd expected Donovan to be, well, happy to see me. Or at least fucking
relieved
that I'd survived. Instead, the detective had seemed disgusted and disappointed, like things would have been so much easier for him if I'd been buried under that mountain forever and wasn't around to tempt him anymore. Donovan had even gone so far as to turn his back on me, instead of trying to help me and see that I got the medical attention that I needed. The detective's open, curt dismissal had cut me deeper than I liked to admit. Even today, I could still feel the faint sting of it. That had been the beginning of the end of Donovan and me, even if I hadn't realized it at the time.

“Not one of my finest moments, I admit,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood. “I excel at killing men, not so much at picking the right ones to date. At least, I didn't until I met you.”

Owen smiled a little at
that, but his face soon turned serious once more.

“You don't even see it, do you?” he asked. “How similar you are to Callie.”

I frowned. “What do you mean? I'm nothing like Callie.”

He shook his head. “Sure you are. Think about it. You're both beautiful, strong, smart women. You both have dark hair and pale eyes. You both run these cool, quirky restaurants and are great cooks. Hell, she even wears blue aprons just like you do at the Pork Pit. It's a little eerie if you ask me.”

I didn't know what to make of his words. Bria had told me once that I reminded her of Callie, but I hadn't thought much about how alike we were. I wondered if Donovan had noticed it—if it was what had drawn him to Callie in the first place. I didn't know whether to be flattered or weirded out.

“Donovan had you, and he was a fool to leave town, to leave
you
,” Owen said. “Now, he's trying to replace you with Callie. That's
his
business. But I don't want you to make the same mistake with him twice, especially when I know that he'd only hurt you again. I love you too much for that, Gin. I do now, and I always will.”

The raw sincerity burning in his violet eyes made my heart quiver in a way that nothing else ever had—especially not Donovan. I leaned forward and cupped my hands around Owen's rough, rugged face.

“I love you, Owen. I want to be with
you
—not Donovan. You've got nothing to worry about. Donovan is my past. I can't change that or the old memories that he stirs up in me, but you're my present—my today, my tomorrow, my future. You always will be.”

Owen stared at me, his eyes searching
mine as if he could somehow see past the cold, indifferent mask that I usually presented to the world and peer into my very soul. I let him look a second longer, then leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. I'd meant the kiss to be brief and gentle, but it turned into far more than that. Donovan's reappearance had shaken us both up a little more than either one of us would have liked to admit.

Owen's solid arms snaked around me, pulling me down onto the blanket next to him. He plundered my mouth like a pirate searching for buried treasure, his tongue teasing, retreating, and diving against mine again and again. Hot, demanding need pulsed through my body with every sure, quick stroke, and I ran my hands over the strong, chiseled planes of his face, skimming my fingers over the scar under his chin, his slightly crooked nose, and the faint lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. All the little imperfections that somehow made him so irresistible to me.

Finally, we broke apart, both of us panting and aching for more—so much more.

“You're mine,” Owen said in a fierce whisper, the heat in his eyes as bright as the scorching sun. “Not his.
Mine
. Only mine. Always mine.”

“I'm yours,” I agreed, then pushed him over onto his back. “But don't you forget that you're
mine
too. Only mine. Always mine.”

Owen growled and pulled my head down for another hard, almost brutal kiss. He wound his fingers through my hair, holding me just where
he wanted to. I let him take control, let him lose himself in the emotions that were urging him on, urging both of us on.

Owen stripped off my clothes even as I wrestled with his, making sure to grab a condom out of his wallet so we would have even more protection besides the little white pills that I took. Soon, there was nothing between us. The warmth of the sun beat down, searing us through the shade of the umbrella, but it was nothing compared to the fire that burned between us.

Owen trailed kisses down my neck, stopping here and there to bite me gently, then a little harder, then a little harder still. I dug my hands into his shoulders, kneading his muscles, urging him on. His head dipped lower, and his tongue swirled lazily around my nipple before he nipped it with his teeth. Pleasure spiked through me at the sensation.

“Do you like that?” he rasped.

“I love everything that you do to me,” I whispered back. “I love the way you make me feel.”

Owen smiled. “Good answer. Because things are about to get a whole lot better.”

He slipped a finger inside me, then another, pumping them back and forth, in and out, in and out, in a steady, furious rhythm. He leaned forward, his tongue flicking against first one nipple, then another, his faint, bristly stubble scraping against my skin, making me that much more sensitive to his touch.

“Hey now,” I said, panting, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Don't think that you're going to have all the fun today.”

A wicked smile curved
Owen's lips, and he moved down my body and bent his head. His tongue flicked against my outer folds and then slid in deeper, then deeper, then deeper still, as if he could lick his way to the very center of me.

I arched and arched my back as if that would relieve the delicious pressure building and building inside me. But every time I was ready to go over the edge, Owen would bring me back down just a little, just enough to ratchet up my need that much more. His rich, wonderful smell filled my nose, the one that always made me think of metal, until I was dizzy with it—and dizzy with the sensation of being loved by him.

Just when I thought I was going to scream from the pleasure of it all, Owen raised his head and kissed his way back up my body. I reached up for his head, but he pinned my arms to the blanket and stared down at me.

“You're beautiful,” he said in a hoarse voice. “So strong and beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Then he leaned forward and captured my mouth with his again.

I squirmed against him and opened my legs, wet and aching for him. Owen braced his weight on his elbows and rested his hard cock against me. He surged his hips forward the tiniest bit, rubbing against me, but not sliding inside. Not yet. Teasing me instead. I groaned. Above me, Owen did the same, but he didn't stop his game.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I slid my hands out of his hold and rolled him over onto his back, my hand moving down to capture his stiff erection.

I did the same thing
to him that he'd done to me. Licking, stroking, and caressing his thick length until his hands clenched the blanket. But Owen didn't let me play for long. He reached for the condom and put it on, then pulled me up so that I was sitting on his lap. Every part of my body was aching for him, and my legs locked around his waist.

“Mine,” Owen whispered a final time before sliding deep inside me.

I moaned at the length of him finally filling me after so much teasing. Back and forth we moved together, thrusting against each other, our lips and hands building the pressure, the desire, the need, that much more.

I'd been right back at the restaurant—it was deliciously good and oh, so satisfying.

All around us in the cove, the water sprayed and frothed and foamed, but we were already lost in another sort of undertow, swept away until there was nothing left but the climax that drowned us both.

13