Odin (Billionaire Titans Book 2) (5 page)

A
fter the better part of
a fortnight, caring for Odin became my new routine and was as comfortable as that old cotton t-shirt from college, the one somebody left in my dorm one night and which became part of my regular rotation, despite being a little too big and having the name of a school I’d never heard of on the front. It was just so soft, felt so good on me, and brought back so many fond memories that I knew I’d keep it until it disintegrated after one too many washes.

That’s how life as Odin’s personal doctor became for me. As I moved around his room I spoke to him, explaining what I was doing, telling him any news I’d gleaned from the outside world via television or the internet. If we were alone, I even sang to him sometimes. I hoped when he woke up that he could forgive me for that.

Even in Mallory’s absence, I continued to shave Odin. It bonded us, silly as that might sound. There was something sensual about it, intimate, and I looked forward to it. Usually in the evenings, after dinner when everyone had retired to their rooms, I’d fill the bowl and lather him up.

Atlas informed me one day that he anticipated delivery of the materials from UCLA the following afternoon. I wasn’t convinced the device would work; it had barely been tested and I was no expert on its use anyway, but if it had a chance, I had to try. Against all medical ethics, I was starting to have real feelings for my patient, the kind that led nowhere but straight to trouble.

I walked back to my room under a moon that cast everything in a pale, romantic glow. I longed for Odin to walk through the moonlight with me. Or the sunlight. Or anywhere.

Dreams, for the gifted, can hold premonition. For one night, at least, mine worked the other way. Climbing into bed I knew what I wanted and what I craved, despite the fact that neither my wants nor cravings for Odin could ever be anything but a schoolgirl fantasy. I hadn’t felt anything for a man in so long that it all snuck up on me. I think I read once about something called “insta-love.” “Love” couldn’t really be what I felt for Odin; it had to be the powerful cocktail of the men, money, mystery, and danger surrounding him that intoxicated me so; his looks, his body, his helplessness. He needed me to save him. He needed me. Wrong though it certainly was, I
needed
him.

Touching him while I shaved him, touching a man tenderly, almost sensually, rather than the detached, professional way I dealt with my patients, stirred something deep inside me. As I lay in bed, I caressed myself; something I hadn’t done since I lost my husband. Never mind an orgasm, I hadn’t even allowed myself to become aroused since my loss.

But now my hands explored my body, clumsily at first, fingertips drifting here and there, to my collarbone, down my side, the other hand lingering just below my bellybutton. When my fingers closed around my right nipple, tugged it gently and released it, I surprised myself with a loud gasp. I found myself dewy when my fingers ventured between my legs. My mind may have forgotten the road to pleasure, to climax, but my body recalled the path clearly. Just when I started to reach a comfortable rhythm and discard my genteel veneer, I came to my senses.

I was at work, technically. A screen near my bed displayed Odin’s vital signs. It was possible that my own living space was being monitored by someone, so security-conscious were these Titans.

I counted to one hundred, then two hundred, breathing deeply, before starting a countdown back to zero. It was a technique I’d perfected during medical school, when sleep was vital, and I was well-practiced in it. A sort of meditation I’d developed, and by the time I reached the 160s, I was gone.

At some point in the night, my dreams delivered me into the arms of Odin Titan. Or, at the risk of being crass, they delivered him into me. Where I desperately desired him. Inside of me.

I was standing by his bed, preparing to give him his sponge bath. His shirt was open, and in my dream his chest was undamaged by the bullets that tore through his left lung. He was sculpted; flawless. His pants were slung low on his hips, the mysterious Olympic tattoo beckoning me.

I began by washing his arms, my fingers tracing the sinews and ripples of his biceps and down the sleek cords of muscle on of his forearms. As I touched him, the softest sounds came from his perfect mouth. A smile played at the corner where I’d shaved away that last bit of stubborn stubble. He was sighing contentedly.

My hands moved to his torso, down over the contours of his abs. The word washboard did as much to describe the musculature of Odin’s stomach as would calling the Eiffel Tower a “tall building in Paris.” Accurate, yes, but woefully short of a perfect description. Odin’s midsection was exquisite. He had definition on the sides, that delicious V shape leading… to heaven, in my estimation.

As I ran my hand down those mouth-watering ridges and traced the Olympic rings with my finger, the crotch of his pants began to move. Slowly, at first, but something inside was clearly awake. It lolled to one side, coming to rest somewhere on his thigh, and I watched in amazement as it continued to stretch, to seek the air, to seek egress from the confines of the flimsy hospital pants he wore.

I didn’t dare to touch it, to assist it in its quest for freedom. Did I? It struggled mightily, pushing up and out as my hand lazily caressed Odin’s side. It wouldn’t hurt to just give it some more space. To clear a path. So I hooked a finger beneath the waistband and lifted, while at the same time reaching down and easing Odin’s legs apart ever so slightly.

And suddenly I heard him say my name. I looked to his face and his eyes were open. He stared at me in a way that I’d wanted to him to look at me since the moment I’d first seen him.

The room was silent but for the pounding of my heart in my ears. I was hot, my face flushed, and I fanned myself with my free hand as I held the waistband of his pants open. I let my fanning hand drop and my fingernail happened to land at his right nipple. Dragging it across was enough to coax the beast to accept my invitation and show itself.

Odin’s cock swelled to its majestic full length, emerging and extending beyond where a man’s appendage ought to reach. It lay there, hard and muscular, almost daring me to touch it, to tame it. It was wanton and angry, seeming to pulse with the best of his heart. His sighs grew guttural, the slightest bit of a growl to them.

If touching one of his nipples caused all that, I wondered what the other one might do. I circled it with my fingernail before plucking at it. His whimper was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard. His dick twitched and seemed to swell, and I squirmed in my chair.

I didn’t dare to touch his cock. It would end me, surely. The point of no return. But I wanted to see more, I needed to unleash his manhood completely. I reached around his waist and shimmied his pants down over his ass to mid-thigh, and the beast rose from his stomach and bobbed in the air for me. My nostrils flared, accepting the musky scent of him. Pure masculinity, distilled into the clear droplet of fluid that clung stubbornly to his opening. If I were to just take him in my hand, stroke him once, it would surely fall. And more like it to follow.

I marveled at his erection, trying to gauge if my body could even handle that sort of length and girth. I imagined mounting him; the fullness as I accepted him inside me, inch by powerful inch, until I was seated upon him fully. I wouldn’t have any choice in the matter. Once I started, my body would demand all of him. Whether it could all fit or not. Like a child faced with an enormous hot fudge sundae, it would have to be conquered. Better not to risk it. Better to put it away. To pull his pants back up, return to my room, and forget what I’d seen.

But the longer I stared, the more mesmerized I became. My hand absent-mindedly circled his nipple and I chanced to drag my nail across it just once more. And the droplet grew in size, threatening to pull his entire shaft down with its weight, becoming pearlescent. I fixated on it. If I stared hard enough at it, it had to fall. If it would only fall, it would be my salvation. The fire in my loins would be extinguished. The ache in my soul salved. I licked my lips. I could barely breathe. I bit my bottom lip as I watched his cock throb. Veins appearing and filling with blood. I couldn’t breathe.

I was the patient and he was my physician. He had the only medicine that could save me, and it had to be administered internally. I needed it so badly. It was right there, I could see it, smell it; taste it if I dared. But it would come with a price. The cost would be too great. If I submitted to his cure, to his cock, he’d own me.

It clung there, stubbornly refusing to leave his body.
Fuck
. It taunted me. Tormented me. To watch it slide down his wide shaft or to drop, slowly, like honey fresh from the comb, to land in a puddle on those marvelous abs, was all I needed. No money, no award, nothing in my professional or personal life could fulfill me the way watching that most precious fluid leave Odin’s perfect cock would. I swallowed hard and reached out a tentative finger.

Near the base of the underside of Odin’s manhood I made contact. He moaned and his cock jumped at just that feather-light touch. But still it refused to fall.

I dragged my finger slowly up his length, pressing down as I did, and finally he released that precious treasure. Slowly, it slid down, over the head and halfway down the shaft before falling to his body. It was my turn to whimper. My jaw hung slack.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. My senses seemed heightened. The room was stiflingly hot. I encircled him with my fingers, and found my thumb and forefinger unable to touch when surrounding him. His skin was impossibly soft, yet was wrapped around granite. I squeezed and pulled, and clear fluid obscenely gushed from the end of his cock. I added a second hand to the job, still inadequate to contain his length, and I pumped away at him. I looked back at his face, and found his mouth open, eyes still on me. He said nothing because his eyes told me everything.

He needed me too.

I felt hypnotized. My body moved on its own accord, rising to my feet, hands leaving his body only to peel off the yoga pants I wore. I kicked them away and climbed onto the bed, my leg swinging across his body. I positioned his cock to impale me, pointing straight at the ceiling.

As he entered me, I felt virginal. I cried out as he split my six years’ chaste body apart. I’d never been more wet, yet still I struggled to receive him.

My hips rotated in small circles, adjusting to his size, top teeth digging into my bottom lip so hard I feared I’d draw blood. I sank down with a grimace, getting halfway down before lifting myself off when the pressure became too great. I held him and rubbed him against my opening, shockwaves jolting me each time he bumped against my clit.

When I felt more ready, I mounted him again, this time determined to enjoy his entirety. Progress was slow, but I found success, settling against him while moaning his name softly. His mouth was moving, forming soundless words, his large hands holding onto my swaying hips.

I began to ride him, slowly at first, withdrawing almost completely before sliding back down. Once my arousal peaked, I changed my approach, opting to bounce quickly and grind my pelvis against his. I wouldn’t last long like this, with both my clit and spot being stimulated together.

The first wave picked me up, dashing me against the rocks, shattering me into a million pieces. The second and third gathered those pieces and dumped them on the beach, where an endless series of smaller splashes surrounded me, tossed me to and fro, and half buried me in the sand. Or buried my soul deep inside Odin, inside his heart. Even though he wouldn’t know me, or look twice at me, I was sure, if we passed each other on the street.

As I recovered, and my breathing and pulse rate returned to something approaching normal, I awoke with a start.

Dammit. It was only a dream.

I’d had a violent, jarring orgasm in my sleep, and the pajama pants I wore were soaked. The most intense sexual experience of my life had taken me, swept me away with its fury, and it was all in my mind. That was the power Odin had over me.

I resisted the urge to masturbate the night away, having promised Piper a pregnancy well-check in the morning, the UCLA equipment was due in the afternoon, and I needed to be rested and prepared for whatever challenges Odin’s condition might pose.

How would I face him? I knew I’d blush; it had been something I’d always hated, blushing so easily and so deeply. I just had to hope no one else was around when I first saw him again, otherwise I’d surely die of embarrassment. But not before I might have to explain my blush.

But something was now clear.

I had to save Odin. Because Odin was already saving me.

I
was excited
about the ultrasound device I’d heard my brother and Clara discussing. Raven Conway would “acquire” it, one way or the other, I was sure of that. Whether or not it would be helpful to me remained to be seen, but eager barely described how I felt about it.

With nothing to do during long stretches of my day, despite Clara’s best efforts to keep me entertained, my mind dredged up all sorts of memories of Raven, who had become an invaluable asset to Titan Holdings, and to me in particular.

I recalled my junior year at Calhoun Academy, the exclusive Connecticut boarding school where I spent great swaths of my childhood. I was a pretty accomplished computer hacker by then, having grown up with access to state of the art computer equipment and experts to tutor me since I was just out of diapers.

It was late in the school year, and I was in my dorm on a Friday night after having had dinner in town with blonde bombshell Charlize St. Vincent, a classmate of mine. She hadn’t done quite as well on her first attempt at the SAT as she’d hoped she might, so I figured I’d impress her by improving her score with a few clicks of my mouse. I wasn’t even sure it was possible, but I knew if I could do it that I’d have a one-way ticket between her sculpted tennis-players’ legs, somewhere I’d been trying to get for years.

I’d managed to crack the encryption and defeat the firewalls at SAT’s huge cyber-database, but I was struggling to acquire Charlize’s individual record, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do anything with it once I did.

After hitting a few dead ends, and enduring yawns and eye rolls from Charlize, an instant messenger window popped up on my screen, with the name of the sender curiously blank:

N
obody knew
what I was up to except the two people in my room, so I was understandably concerned. I ignored it, figuring if it was a friend, I didn’t want to fall deeper into his trap; and if it was somebody from SAT security, I wanted to admit nothing.

A few minutes later, a second message appeared:

P
lenty of friends
knew I dabbled in hacking; well, more than dabbled, and some of them were my co-conspirators. But I was baffled, since nobody knew what I was planning or that I was even home. In fact, all my friends had been made painfully aware by my weeks’ worth of bragging that I’d scored a date with Charlize that evening.

I replied:

T
he response was immediate
:

N
ow my curiosity
was definitely piqued, and I minimized everything on my screen except the messenger.

“What are you doing? I thought you were going to fix my SAT, Odin,” Charlize complained.

“I will, just give me a minute, this is really weird,” I tried to stall her so I could get to the bottom of my mystery.

S
o
, you aren’t a Calhoun guy?
I asked my secret chat partner.

C
harlize laughed
as she read over my shoulder. I gave her side eye.

I
formed
a picture in my head of some geek bookworm from the local public school, home on a Friday night, taking time out from his video games to hassle the Calhoun guys who consumed him with fear and envy.

T
he message lit
up my monitor before I’d replied to the previous one.

W
ho
?
I asked, grateful that words typed on a computer can’t betray a nervous tone.

C
harlize
and I looked at one another in horror.

“Turn it off. This is weird. Just forget it. I think I want to go home,” Charlize pleaded with me.

I
knew
my webcam was not “wide open.” I had layers of security on my PC. Now I was seriously pissed.

“Okay, I’m sorry, let me walk you home,” I asked, and Charlize nodded her assent.

I
’ll be back
in a bit. Let’s continue this conversation
I typed into my messenger reply box.

W
hat do I call you
?
I asked, the last thing I planned to type before leaving with Charlize, who stood by the door, growing impatient.

* * *

I
walked
Charlize back across campus to her dorm, getting a less-than-enthusiastic goodnight kiss for my trouble.

“Figure that shit out. It’s weird. Like horror movie weird,” Charlize implored. It was my turn to nod.

I sprinted back across campus, determined to identify the hacker who’d hacked me.

Only my screen was dark and no trace of my conversation remained. I scoured my computer, went through my messenger program, did everything I knew to do, but nothing. I searched for the name Poe, but no clues were forthcoming.

I asked around on a few hackers’ message boards and mentioned the name Poe to my friends who were involved in cyber-espionage, but nobody seemed to know a thing.

A few weeks later, still stymied in my search, I decided to try getting into the ACT database to see if it would lure Poe out of hiding. This time, my webcam was in a drawer.

Within minutes, a message window popped up, again blank where the name should be:

I
had to concede
, as good as I thought I was with a computer, Poe was clearly my superior. I was annoyed, since I wasn’t used to being second best at much of anything, and Poe was miles beyond me. But I was also curious and wanted to learn everything I could.

W
ith that
, Poe was gone.

* * *

I
pulled
out a notebook and a pen, determined to figure out who Poe was.

What did I know? Poe claimed to have a “perfect SAT score” and equally impressive ACT. Poe was a very accomplished hacker, but I’d already struck out going that route.

The name must hold a clue. Edgar Allan Poe? There was a singer named Poe. I had to look her up on-line, she had a song I liked that I hadn’t heard in a while; Angry Johnny. That was too obscure, I thought. Had to be Edgar Allan Poe. Unless that was just the mystery man’s real name.

I started going through Edgar Allan Poe’s work in my mind; The Tell-Tale Heart, The Cask of Amontillado, The Raven. Nothing jumped out at me. It could be any of the characters from any of those stories.

So I refocused on the SAT and ACT aspect of the mystery. If Poe really had perfect scores on
both
tests, he had to be part of a pretty exclusive club. And since he seemed to know Calhoun, I guessed he had to at least live in the Constitution State, if not reside in the immediate vicinity.

I started a painstaking search through newspapers from all over Connecticut for anyone who had achieved a perfect score on either test.

One of my classmates, Phillip Woo, had turned the trick. I never knew Phillip well, other than to know that he was a certifiable genius. He was only 12, one of those prodigies who earn multiple doctorates before their teenage years are over. I doubted he’d much care about anybody else’s score or that anybody would doubt the brilliance of somebody who had been doing calculus for fun by the time he was eight years old.

I expanded my search parameters and uncovered a handful of perfect standardized tests in Connecticut. Gerald Ginsberg had done it. Russell Dalton. Yale beckoned for both of them. Amy Lin had gotten the miracle double. Stanford was in her future. Ryan O’Halloran had a perfect ACT. He was expected to receive an appointment to the Naval Academy. None of them struck me as Poe. They were mostly children of big money New Yorkers whose parents made the commute to Manhattan.

It was late, and I was becoming exhausted when I hit pay dirt.

I found an article about somebody from a gritty school in Jersey City, NJ, named Verna Conway, who had achieved SAT perfection, and was hoping for the same from the ACT, to go along with a 5.0 GPA in weighted honors courses.

She had grown up in a series of foster homes and had spent part of her youth in Connecticut, two towns over from Calhoun. The article was a plea for help, since Verna had spent part of her freshman year homeless, living out of a car. She was being offered full scholarships from the entire Ivy League, as well as MIT, Cal Tech, and every other top academic institution in America, but the problem wasn’t money for college, it was money for life. Money to eat. To replace shoes with holes in them. To buy pens and notebooks.

The more I read, the more impressed I became and the more curious I grew. She was apparently a computer whiz.

Suddenly, it dawned on me.

Verna.

Verna was an anagram for Raven.

Raven meant Edgar Allan Poe.

It was nearly dawn, but I didn’t care. I followed the path I’d walked before, carefully tiptoeing through SAT cyber-security. Even at that late, or early, hour, my messenger came to life instantly.

T
he cursor blinked endlessly
on my monitor, and I worried I’d been too forward and scared her away.