Of Alliance and Rebellion (28 page)

As she started coming down, she was dimly aware of him pushing to his feet and kicking the chair back until it hit the wall with a crash. She heard the crinkle of one of those foil squares, and then he was there, his hips between her thighs.

The hot brush of his erection against her was perfection itself. She reached out and grabbed at his shirt, fingers desperate for his skin. She fumbled for the buttons, and his hands joined hers in the quest. In moments, her fingers were encountering the hot and smooth skin covering his abs. She bit into her bottom lip and smoothed her hands upward.

He grunted as her fingers brushed over his tight little nipples, and in the next instant, he was surging into her, his erection filling her to the depths. She sucked in a breath.

He paused. “Oh, God. Did I hurt you?” His face twisted, and he began to back out and pull away.

She tightened her legs around his waist to keep him from leaving. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly, more a command that he not pull out of her than an answer to his question.

The corner of his mouth tilted up slowly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, knowing instinctively that she’d commanded him.

She canted her hips, pressing down on him and squeezing him at the same time. They groaned simultaneously, and his hands shot up and cradled her breasts. She arched into the touch, raking her nails down the ridges of his abdomen.

“I love you,” he said, surging into her and grinding against her clit.

“Yes,” she breathed, moving her hips in time with him.

“Say it,” he grated, his teeth clenched.

Immediate understanding. Her hands shot up and grabbed his shirt, dragging him down until she could crush his lips with her own. She kissed him thoroughly but quickly before she pulled back from the kiss. “I love you,” she whispered to him.

His eyes flashed, and he dove back down to kiss her once more, his thrusts picking up speed and intensity so that all she could do was hold on and kiss him back.

That same climb to completion began anew within her, and she could tell he was nearing the end as well. His breathing grew hectic and uneven and the muscles beneath her fingers bunched and quivered. “Ana,” he groaned. “I’m going to—”

At that moment, the tension within her snapped. She arched her head back and cried out.

“Oh, thank God,” he said, thrusting into her quickly three—four times before stiffening completely. He roared into her neck as his body jerked atop her.

When he finally stilled, he slowly raised his head and looked down at her. His smile was wide and showed all of his perfect teeth. He brushed her nose with the tip of his and drew his fingers down her cheek in the softest of caresses. “I think we should find our bed,” he muttered, his eyes focused on the waves spread around her head. “We need to do that again, and then I want to hold you while I sleep.”

A knock sounded at the door three times before someone tried the doorknob. At the jingle of metal tumblers, Anahita stiffened and prepared to jerk her robe down, but Max refused to move—rather stubbornly if Anahita said so.

“Door’s locked,” he said, continuing to stroke her cheek. “And I’m not done touching you yet so they can just go the fuck away.”

“Anahita,” a male voice said—one of her Warriors. “We have news that cannot wait.”

“It’s going to have to,” Max called. His muscles had stiffened, and the slightest hint of resignation flitted across his scarred face.

“My love, it may not truly be able to wait,” Anahita said, smoothing her hands over his shoulders, already regretting the inevitable end to this intimate moment.

“Hell,” Max said. He dropped a quick kiss to her lips. “You call me
love
one more time, and you can get me to do pretty much any damn thing you want.” He straightened and pulled slowly out of her. They both moaned at the loss of connection. With a sigh, he began doing up the buttons of his shirt.

Anahita sat up, wincing slightly at a twinge between her legs that told her she’d been well loved, and straightened her robe over her knees.

Max reached out and pinched her chin between his thumb and finger. “Okay?” he asked softly. “I wasn’t too rough?”

She leaned in and kissed the hollow of his throat before saying, “Next time it is my turn to make
you
sore.”

He swallowed hard. “That is most definitely a date,” he said, voice husky. The knock sounded again, and Max growled. “Your men are going to drive me crazy.”

“You are my only man,” she said absently.

“Damn straight, and they better recognize that.” He stalked over to the door, clicked the lock, and pulled it open so quickly, the angel on the other side nearly stumbled into the room. The three angels behind him looked in with wide eyes, and Anahita tried to slide off the table as nonchalantly as possible. “You get five minutes with her,” Max said, wagging a finger in the face of her stunned Warrior. “Then, if she’s not in our apartment, I’m coming back here and throwing her over my shoulder to take her there.”

Something wicked and delicious rolled over in Anahita’s stomach, and she stared hungrily at Max’s tight behind as he stalked from the room. Her Warriors filed in as sheepishly as Warriors could, and she gestured for them to take their seats. Biting back a smile, she said, “You have six minutes, Warriors.”

When she’s not writing or teaching, Micah Persell spends time with her husband, brand new daughter, and menagerie of pets in her Southern California home.
Of Alliance and Rebellion
is her sixth novel; she has also published
Of Eternal Life
(Operation: Middle of the Garden #1),
Of the Knowledge of Good and Evil
(Operation: Middle of the Garden #2),
Of Consuming Fire
(Operation: Middle of the Garden #3),
Persuasion: The Wild and Wanton Edition,
and
Emma: The Wild and Wanton Edition
. Learn more about her at
www.micahpersell.com
, or visit her on
Facebook
,
Twitter
, and
Pinterest
.

(From
Of Consuming Fire
by Micah Persell)

Dr. Grace Tucker pulled herself deeper into the corner and tucked her arms tighter around her unshapely belly. As her hands and arms touched her large middle, it repulsed her nearly as much as it seemed to repulse the opposite sex. No, there was no disappearing a plus-sized woman, but her sloppy appearance got most people to look away quickly, which was as close as Grace was ever going to get to being blessedly invisible.

And, not for the first time, she desperately wished to be invisible.

Grace huddled in the main room of the top-secret government facility where the Trees stood. As always, she ignored them. She was never awed by the ancient trees. She’d taken one cursory glance at their branches that most described as majestic. Their fruit — covered in glittering diamonds for the Tree of Eternal Life, swirling black and white for the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil — was interesting only in that it loosely related to her work. She didn’t stand there and stare at them for hours as she was told was the expected behavior for new employees.

And yet right now, Grace wasn’t the only one ignoring the Trees. The somber mood in the facility was nearly suffocating. Not one of the dozens of employees had spoken in hours. They moped from room to room, desk to desk, casting great, wide-eyed glances upon everyone they crossed. But that wasn’t the reason Grace retreated to the corner.

They were
touching
one another.

Any person they came into reaching distance with. A hand on the shoulder. A hug. A squeeze of the arm or lingering pat on the back.

It was only a matter of time before one of them tried to touch
her
. And that simply was not going to work. End of story.

And, so, she was in the closest thing to a corner the domed room provided.

A young soldier in army fatigues walked by, and Grace went rigid, holding her breath until he passed.

He didn’t once glance in her direction. Grace’s breath flew from her frozen lungs even as her heart seized at the casual snub. She hugged herself tighter as she cursed her weak emotions. Without fail, every time her carefully cultivated armor of acerbic wit and slovenly appearance actually worked as she’d meant it to by keeping others away, her irrational side would come up bruised, as though it didn’t know perfectly well the reasons human contact was not in Grace’s cards.

She sighed almost silently, and forced herself to look cheerfully upon the fact that standing in the corner was working. She would make it through this. She
would
. It wouldn’t be like all of the other times. There would be no scene. No gut-wrenching screams shooting from her body without her control. No hysterical sobs. No sedation. No awkward return to work. No inevitable summons to the boss. No starting over with the knowledge that this was her life — on repeat.

She closed her eyes. The sad truth was, this
was
her life. And right now, she was huddled in the corner, praying to be invisible, worrying with all of her strength that someone would touch her.

But her friend’s impending death? Not even a blip on her emotional radar. Jericho Edwards was dying, and Grace was worried about herself.

Jericho was everyone’s favorite, but for a reason Grace couldn’t explain, he was
her
favorite as well. It had been thirteen long years since Grace considered a man as anything other than something to be avoided at all costs. Thirteen years since Grace had carefully erected a wall around her heart. And yet, somehow, Jericho found his way around that wall the tiniest bit.

It might have been the very obvious fact that Jericho would never, ever pose a threat to her. She’d known two seconds after being introduced to him that he was head over heels in love with someone: his Impulse mate, Dahlia. Jericho was nice to
everyone
, men and women alike. In fact, Grace had never met anyone so good.

And he’d taken one look at her — her frumpy clothes, excess body weight, bird’s nest of red hair, black-rimmed glasses, and man-hating glare — and deemed her a friend, working tirelessly at cultivating a relationship with her when everyone else just avoided her.

And now, he was dying. Worse, his survival depended upon
Grace
and Grace’s work.

Three months and a week or so ago, Jericho cut his finger on the sword — the artifact that Grace was commissioned to work on. It was a flesh wound that should have healed in seconds given that Jericho, Dahlia, Eli, and Abilene were all immortal after eating the fruit from the Tree of Eternal Life. But the simple wound hadn’t healed. And things came to a head a few days ago when Jericho returned to the facility with his brand new wife, Dahlia. In the process of moving, Jericho managed to rip the tiny, unhealed wound wide open from the tip of his finger into his palm. It had been bleeding profusely ever since, and his body couldn’t keep up.

And suddenly, Dr. Grace Tucker was very much in demand. She couldn’t count the number of times she had to remind them “I’m not that kind of doctor.” Their situation was so unique that her PhD in dead languages made her much more qualified to help Jericho than an MD would on its best day, but her work took more time than medication or surgery ever would.

She’d made her breakthrough this morning.

The ancient, dead language on the sword said
What the Tree gives, the Sword takes. What the Sword takes, the Tree gives.

At least, she was ninety-nine percent sure that’s what it said.

Grace gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and reassured herself that she was never wrong when it came to her work. Never. She was wrong when it came to everything else, but her work was infallible.

That’s why she was here. She was the single most prestigious language expert in the world. And it was going to change her life. That was the plan. She’d worked hard to make sure no one noticed her. The weight she’d gained, the fashion-backward wardrobe, the overt hostility — when she couldn’t disappear into her surroundings, she kept people away with every weapon her extensive intelligence and vast vocabulary could come up with.

But Grace’s secret dream
was
recognition. She just wanted it on her terms. She was going to make
the
discovery of all time with this sword. It was the work she’d been waiting for her entire career. And now it was here. And, as long as her translation was right, it was about to save one of only four immortal human beings on the planet.

Career. Made.

Everyone would know her name; everyone would know she was something. And the best part? She’d be absolutely untouchable in a way she could not dream of cultivating on her own. No one walked up to the winner of the Nobel Prize and gave them a hug. They got the recognition without all the messy social baggage associated with being members of the human race. They were members of a class considered above such things. And Grace couldn’t wait to be admitted into their ranks.

Grace’s eyes snapped open when she heard the sharp clack of men’s shoes on the hard floor of the facility. Sergeant Collins was approaching.

Grace shrank back further into her corner, her shoulders bending in on themselves, but it was too late: he was looking right at her, and double damn, he’d noticed she was trying to turn into wallpaper if the arch of one of his salt and pepper eyebrows was any indication.

He stopped before her, and Grace couldn’t prevent the hitch in her breathing. Reaching distance. The man was within reaching distance. She bit her bottom lip to avoid a whimper.

“Dr. Tucker?” Sergeant Collins asked in his smooth, Southern whisky drawl. He then looked her over once more. His eyes softened. He took a step back and crossed his arms behind him, effecting “at ease” posture.

Relief flooded through her so strongly it momentarily overshadowed the embarrassment she felt at having someone else recognize her reticence at human contact. But only momentarily. Damn it, why couldn’t she be normal?

She straightened to her full height — a whole five feet five inches — and worked her hardest to look as un-crazy as possible. “What can I do for you, sir?” A lock of her frizzy, red hair fell over her glasses, blocking Sergeant Collins from sight. She shoved it out of the way, tucking it behind one of the pencils stuffed into her “style” of the day.