The Problem with Promises (3 page)

I’ll never think that way.
“Would killing the Black Mage change the Fae court’s opinion that wolves are a lower order? Would it stop the trapping, or the—”

“It will buy them some time.” His fingers soothed my tense jaw.

“Until what?”

“Until I find the safe passage.”

I’d sent a rogue across the gates six months ago. In some ways, he’d been easier to deal with than the “Son of Lukynae.” Never in a million years would rogue wolf Robson Trowbridge have lifted a clenched fist in the air and cried, “Freedom for all!”

“Trowbridge.” I paused to pick my words carefully. “If there really was a portal keyed to recognize and accept Were blood, wouldn’t someone have used it by now?”

“Are you saying there is no Safe Passage for the wolves of Merenwyn?”

“I’m saying that…”
The Raha’ells are no longer yours to lead.
“My wish list is a lot shorter than yours. I’m not trying to save the world. I just want the seven of us safe,” I said. “That’s all I want, Trowbridge. You and me, Lexi and Anu, Cordelia and Harry … even Biggs. Everything I do is for that, and because of that.” I bit my lip. “You’re confident you can take on everything that comes your way. While I … What if I haven’t got what it takes?”

Knuckles brushed my cheek. Callused. Heated with blood. Smelled like forests and the wild. “Stop worrying,” he said softly. “We can do this. And you have everything you need inside you to finish this.”

“How can you be so sure?” I whispered.

“I just am.”

I forced my lids open and lifted my chin to gaze at Gorgeous.
I love you
—that’s what I tried to telegraph.

He frowned. “You look really tired.”

“Go ahead, Trowbridge,” I said sourly. “Keep drowning me in compliments.”

His thumb lightly grazed the circle under my eye. Then naked as a jaybird he gave me a smoldering look. “I’ve got an idea.”

Trowbridge steered me into the bathroom, his hand warm on the small of my back. “I could spend the next year in a shower. Hot water. Lots of towels. Soap … damn, I missed good soap.”

The League of Extraordinary Bitches had gone over the en suite with their sponges and Pine-Sol. The tub gleamed, the sink had been swiped down.

“I’m not sure if I want one right now.” An absolute truth. Though a lot of our conversations seemed to take place in one bathroom or another, we’d only really ducked under the spray once together. And that had been in a motel that had smelled of strangers, puke, and booze. Not one of my warm and fuzzy memories. Robbie Trowbridge had turned the water to cold, then held me under it.

“It will relax you,” he murmured, pulling aside the curtains.

Sure it will.
I leaned against the bathroom vanity.

His body was marble. All tendons and definition. Thanks to his zero body fat, even his veins were on display—blue ribbons beneath golden skin. One led a trail down his massive bicep, curved into his elbow, then forked—three times—on his forearm.

Sexy beast.

My One True Thing turned on the taps, then stood, holding his hand under the spray. On one level, he was just a man waiting for his shower to warm. Palm turned upward to accept the dancing spray. Weight balanced on one foot, hip cocked. But this was My One True Thing. I didn’t even know how to describe the way his hip and groin met. He looked like a Ken doll, except for the fact he is an awesomely functioning male, and Ken has the anatomy of … well … a Ken doll.

Poor Barbie. She could have done so much better.

Trowbridge plucked the desiccated soap from the soap dish. His bicep flexed—
pumped
—as he lifted the cake of Irish Spring for a sniff test. Goddess. With Trowbridge, watching my man wait for the shower to heat was a mouth-drying, pussy-tightening
event.

“This stinks of Mannus,” he said in disgust, before pitching the bar into the empty wastepaper container with enough force to overturn it.

I did not bend to right the wicker basket.

But I did spot an item that had escaped the league’s attention. Head tilted, I stepped back to get a better look. Half hidden under the skirt of the vanity was one of Trowbridge’s dreadlocks. I leaned to pick it up. Fuzzy. Surprisingly soft. Smelling of him and Merenwyn. Should I get one of the crafty bitches to make a bracelet out of it?

“What’s that?” he inquired.

“Nothing.” I slid it off my wrist and tucked it in the drawer.

When I lifted my eyes, I caught him watching me in the mirror. Oh, goody. He’d offered me a full frontal. Ever the happy homing pigeon, my gaze traveled to the thin line of hair beneath his amazing navel, following the trail all the way to the promised land. I can’t help it. If he’s naked, I’m going to do a status check. Why? Because there’s really such a thing as male beauty and it can be found in a pair of heavy balls and a cock that was growing thicker under my approval.

“Sweetheart,” said the guy in the mirror. “When you look at me like that I want to—”

“Eat me up?”

The man doesn’t blink when he wants sex.

“That’s my T-shirt,” he said.

“You want it back?”

“Uh-huh. Take it off.”

“You’re a bossy man, Robson Trowbridge.”

His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Sweetheart, lose the shirt.”

*   *   *

Boring but true: when you’re tired and alone, disrobing is all about minimal effort. With far less grace than efficiency, you tip your head to one side, grab the neckline of your T-shirt and haul upward. It’s not a particularly exciting thing. Your va-jay-jay doesn’t flood with heat. Your nipples may or may not bead. (In my case, that depends on room temperature, my general level of exhaustion, and whatever I’ve been reading). You’re stripping for yourself. Who cares?

But when you’ve got a man watching you with heavy-lidded interest, the shedding of clothing requires some contemplation.

Like how it might be best to arch your back first. And suck in your gut until your belly button kisses your spine. And perhaps you’ll opt for crossing your arms when you reach for the hem of your T-shirt—knowing that when you finally peel the jersey up over your head, your arms will be twined above you.

I’m a dove. Yours to love.

That might be when you’ll pause to allow
him
a moment of art appreciation. And his breath might hitch as his gaze travels from your crossed wrists, down to the column of your throat, and from there to slip lower to the curve of your breasts.

You may hold the pose, because the night before last, you’d discovered something of breathtaking importance—your lover had an unexpected appreciation for all things visual.

Bottom line, don’t talk, just give the man a diagram.

I held myself poised like a well-padded water nymph, all arched back and lifted chest. For him. And for me. Because when Trowbridge looks at me like that, I’m not fat, I’m not short, I’m not average.

I’m Hedi, Pocket Venus and Destroyer of Men.

I held the position until my lungs screamed for air, then slowly lowered my arms. The shirt wafted to the tiles. My hands tensed, then relaxed.

I gave him my best come-hither.

Ravish me, Big Boy.

I could have said it out loud. Just like I could have turned to face him instead of watching him in the mirror. But silence, I realized with growing wonder, was so much sexier. And seeing him prowl toward me? All predatory intent? That was
beyond
erotic. Particularly as he was doing the same thing as I was—watching the two of us in the mirror. Except my gaze kept sweeping from him to me, while his was fixed on the short girl in the mirror. A hungry wolf, he was, eyeing his game.

“You’re creamy,” he said.

Startled, I raised both brows.

“All over,” he said, his voice rough. “I used to think it was because you had some Fae in you. But I’ve seen them and none of them can match your skin. You’re so…” He shook his head, his voice trailing away.

“Creamy.”

“Just perfect. Pink and clean. So … soft. Female.
Clean,
” he repeated, “and—”

“Creamy,” I said, a smile flirting.

He walked toward me, still shaking his head. As I pivoted to meet him, he murmured, “No. Stay like that. I want to look.”

Well, if you twist my arm.

Pheromones did a dance of joy when he eased himself behind me. I’m not sure whose they were. His. Mine. In the end, it didn’t matter. All that was important was the fact that the air stirred moodily around us—sex, salt, woods, and wild—as he invaded my personal space.

“You’re perfect,” he repeated.

“I am.” Disbelief, covered with a layer of jest.

“Yes, you are.” Certainty, unvarnished by civility. “You’re made just for me,” he elaborated.

You feel that too?

Eyes glittering, he reached for my hips. Slowly, he drew me backward, bending his head, to observe how my body fit against his. He was fully aroused, his penis an insistent and hot presence pressed hard against my buttocks.

My inner core slicked.

“Look at us,” he said.

Easy enough to look at you, My One True Thing. You are beauty personified. Once pretty, now honed into something raw and beautiful.
While me … my attention shifted to the short girl being held by a broodingly handsome man. I considered her, trying to evaluate her as a stranger would. She wasn’t as plain as I thought. In fact, she was …

Well, hell. Standing comfortably inside the circle of her man’s embrace, she was pretty damn close to being hot. That is, if you liked flaring hips and a nipped-in waist.
I think I do.
And her face? While definitely not classically beautiful—and, if one wanted to be tedious about details, not even pretty—it was … arresting. Yes. That was it.
Arresting.
Both baby-faced and inexplicably bold. What was it? Because of her full upper lip? It was literally puffed with desire. Her brown hair? Nothing extraordinary there, except if one’s gaze lingered on how its tangled lengths parted to reveal softly rounded shoulders.

Touch me,
that’s what those white slopes said.

An impudent Lolita. With extraordinary eyes. Almond shaped, faintly tipped upward. Pale, pale green. Sea foam cresting on a long, deep blue ocean roller.

But now, little bright flares spat from inside them.

Insistent. Impatient.

Son of a gun. I look so much better naked.

“Hey, I—”

“Shhh,” he murmured, his cheeks flushed as red as mine. “Stop talking.”

“But I—”

“Let me play,” he insisted.

“Okay,” I said faintly, my nails curling on the vanity.

He nodded, then, his gaze intent, his knowing hands started to roam. Such intrepid travelers, they were. They slid up either side of me, exerting a steady pressure that both branded and inflamed.

In his arms, I’m almost beautiful.

Up, up, they moved, lovingly following the outline of my hourglass shape.
My waist is so small. Under his caress, its exaggerated dip is darn right provocative.
His hands lingered there—a rest stop before they roamed to my breasts. Strangely solemn, he cupped their weight, his thumbs teasing my areolae.

He was so much warmer now. A veritable furnace warming my back.

My head fell back on his shoulder.

Slit eyed, I let him play.

Intensified by the shower’s steam, the scent of sex wove around us. Licking my skin, with its sensuous tongue.

His gaze slipped from the girl in the mirror to the live one in his arms. Plumped in his palms, my pale breasts were visibly swollen, their tips tightly beaded and berry red. He swallowed hard. And then my man went berry picking.

Oh Goddess, yes, Trowbridge. Pinch them again.
The right pressure—a tiny bite of mild pain—the right upward tug. I started to pivot, seeking the wet, sucking, irresistible pleasure of those chiseled lips.

“No,” he said firmly, turning me to face the mirror again. Another squeeze, another pain-pleasure pinch to berries already ripe and red.

Goddess, look at us.

“Let me make love to you.” Blue comets spun in his eyes, as his palm slid over the soft swell of my belly.

My breath caught as supple fingers slid to my mound and dipped low.
Yes.
With a hum of pleasure, I arched against him, lifting my chin to nuzzle his cheek. A love-starved wolf demanding the long stroke.

“I want to see you come,” he told me, his voice rough and low. “I want to watch you break apart in my arms.”

No. Problem. I turned my leg outward and tilted my pelvis in silent demand.

“Don’t you want to make it last?” His clever fingers moved from the aching part of me to the soft silk of my inner thigh.

My thigh trembled.

“Next time,” I said a tad breathily.

Mouth quirked, he continued to torture me, tracing teasing circles on my leg. “But I’d like to hear you moan in my ear.”

“Trowbridge,” I warned, slowly turning in his arms. Between us, the flushed engorged head of his penis. At the slit, a pearl exuded the scent of sex and salt and … him.

Mine.

I stretched on my toes to press a reproving kiss on the corner of his hard mouth. “You’re a terrible tease.”

“I know,” he murmured.

And then he sank to his knees.

*   *   *

We lay on the floor of our bathroom, utterly spent, listening to the water ping off the shower stall. The last orgasm had been a heart-pounding, sweaty shared one— “You’re perfect,” he’d kept repeating, over and over. A two-word love song. Or three, depending on how you counted the contraction.

“How big is the water tank?” I lifted my leg off his sweat-drenched one.

“Not that big.”

“We should get up before all the hot water goes.”

He folded his arm under his head. “There’s no showers in Merenwyn,” he said reflectively. “No baths either.”

“None?”

“They’ve got lakes,” he said heavily. “Fed by the mountain streams.”

“That sounds cold.”

“Like ice,” he said, adjusting his balls.

I rolled, pillowing my head, to face my mate. My mate had a long nose, made even more interesting by his flaring nostrils. A rock-hard body too.
Perfect for me.
I reached over to stroke those fascinating abs, then smothered a smile. Trowbridge wasn’t above the vanity of sucking in his gut.