Forged in Ash (7 page)

She flushed slightly, but stepped to the side. “Can you make it on your own? Or do you need a shoulder?”

As in her shoulder?

Like hell.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, hearing the grit in his voice.

“So you said.” She stared right back, without giving an inch, disbelief rounding her eyes and compressing her lips.

Her eyes were dark brown, her eyelashes and eyebrows dark as well. The dark coloring was striking beneath that golden hair. Would a true blonde have eyes so dark? Maybe those golden strands were courtesy of a bottle, rather than nature. Not that it made a damn bit of difference.

“You coming in, or not?”

When he brushed past her he caught a whiff of something sweet and tangy—citrusy, like lemons, or oranges, an echo of the scent that had haunted him for the past five years. He’d never cared for lemons or oranges, so why the
hell
would his skin suddenly tighten and tingle? Or his belly clench with sharp, inexplicable hunger?

To combat the unwelcome reaction he bore down hard on his leg and focused on the shards of glass digging into his knee. Three steps later, and the tension in his muscles had more to do with pain than hunger.

The short hall was lined with photos. Most were of her father, Commander Winchester—whom Cosky had served beneath back in his Minnow days—and her brother Aiden. But there were two women on the walls as well. The one, a golden-haired beauty in yellowing photos, looked enough like Kait to be her twin, or her mother. The other woman was small and round with a short bob of silver hair. Cosky studied the picture as he passed, seeing an echo of Kait in the shape of the face and the stubborn chin.

Kait’s monument of pictures was proof of how important family was to her. It reminded him of his mother’s entryway. Mom had lined the entire hall with photos too. He couldn’t walk through the door without staring himself in the face.

The hall emptied into the living room. He didn’t see a massage table. Instead she’d spread a white sheet across the couch, anchoring it in place by tucking the excess fabric beneath the cushions. Next to the sofa, a coffee table bristled with an array of plastic bottles, and a pile of folded towels.

“I’m surprised you came,” Kait said from behind him. “I didn’t think you’d be open to metaphysical healing.”

Metaphysical healing? That’s what she called it?

“The jury’s still out.” He turned to face the mouth of the hall, where she stood watching him. Their eyes locked and he could have sworn the room shrank by half. A current of electricity skittered down his spine.

“I’m not surprised.” A shadow touched her eyes. With a slight twist to her lips, she stepped forward. “You’re not the type.”

“There’s a type?” Cosky tilted his head and thought of Zane, of premonition after premonition that had saved their asses more times than not. Some events couldn’t be ruled by logic. They had to be accepted on faith.

“Yeah, there is. It involves a degree of openness, which you don’t have.”

Cosky stomped on a burst of irritation. She’d known him for all of two minutes, hardly enough time to box him into a
type
. “If I were a cynical man, I’d think you were setting up excuses for this experiment’s failure.”

She shrugged and took another step forward. “Aiden said he told you that most of the time this doesn’t work.” She frowned at him, frustration flashing across her face to settle dark and brooding in her eyes.

With a slight shimmy of her shoulders, she seemed to cast her frustration aside. Dark brown eyes zeroed in on him again and Cosky felt the room shrink another few feet. A wave of citrusy scent wafted past him.

His skin tightened and started to prickle.

Just. Perfect.

He broke eye contact by turning toward the couch. Anything to avoid that intense gaze; it was doing freaky things to his heart and respiration, which was the last thing he needed under the circumstances.

“How do you want me, on my back or stomach?”

“Your stomach. I’ll work on your back first, try to relax you. The
more relaxed you are, the better your chances for healing. I told you to wear shorts, remember? I need skin on skin contact.”

Skin on skin contact
. Every muscle in Cosky’s body twitched. The hair on his arms, legs, and the back of his neck lifted.

He almost turned and headed for the door. Almost.

Until Aiden flashed through his mind. Aiden running that nine minute mile. His hands dropped to his waistband instead.

“I’m wearing shorts beneath the sweats.”

“The bathroom’s to your left if you want privacy,” she said, her voice was huskier, closer.

Prickles played up and down Cosky’s spine.

Damn it, there was something in her voice he didn’t want to hear. Something husky and thick and ravenous. Something too damn close to arousal. He hesitated a moment then gritted his teeth and yanked his T-shirt over his head. With a quick shove his sweats slid down his thighs. He sat on the couch, bent to unlace his boots, and pulled them off. His sweats followed.

Without looking up, he turned and stretched flat on the couch, crossing his arms so they served as his pillow. He turned his head so it faced the back of the couch.

See no evil, want no evil.

He swallowed a curse of derision, far too aware of the tension through his crotch. Too damn late for that.

His skin tightened at the faint whisper of her footsteps on the carpet, but they stopped across the room, and a new age melody swimming with flutes suddenly rippled through the air. The music shielded her approach and he tensed, straining to catch the sound of her footsteps beneath the flutes.

It was her citrusy scent that warned him she’d joined him. Suddenly her body heat warmed him from ass to shoulders and that
fragrant cloud enveloped him, bathing him in citrusy sweetness. Every cell in his body locked, fixed on her with growing hunger.

Son of a bitch, he was already in trouble and she hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Here,” she said, as the back of his neck heated. “You can use one of these as a pillow.”

A slender hand placed one of the folded towels in front of his head. He held his breath as her body brushed his, and then unfolded his arms and dragged the towel beneath his cheek.

“I’m going to put one under your ankles too,” she said, her body burning a path down his side as she brushed against him. “It will support your lower back.” He tensed as she lifted his bare feet and slid the towel beneath them.

To his left came the sucking sound of a plastic bottle being squeezed, followed by the oily
shush-shush-shush
of well-lubricated hands rubbing against each other.

“I’m going to start on your upper back and shoulders,” she said, her voice husky.

The warmth radiating along his side migrated up his back as she leaned over him. That sultry, citrus cloud cinched tighter, enveloping him, until he felt encased in a fragrant bubble.

He flinched as her hands touched down and began sliding up and down his back in a series of long, lingering strokes. Suddenly her scent was the last thing on his mind.

In his dreams, her hands had been cool and soft and sinuously smooth, gliding over his skin in a silken skim, leaving his flesh itchy and ravenous in their wake.

In reality, they were hot.

Strong.

Determined.

They dug into his back with strength and confidence, kneading muscles that were growing tenser by the second. Heat flowed from the point of contact, spreading out in fiery waves, setting fire to every muscle, every nerve, every bone, until his entire back felt aflame.

Tingles were the least of his worries.

Spontaneous combustion was a definite concern.

“Does it hurt when I touch you here?” she asked, her breath a cool mist against the nape of his sweaty neck.

Her touch shifted from kneading to caressing and he realized she was massaging the mangled, scarred memento of the two rounds to his back. She leaned closer, her body brushing his waist, her hands sliding gently up and down and around the blistered scar tissue.

Her hands lightened and slowed, taking on a rhythm that was more caress than massage.

Was she
petting
him?

A puff of humid breath washed against the back of his neck again. It sparked an electrical charge, which zipped up his spine and into his brain. He went light-headed and dizzy.

Jesus Christ.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No.” The word sounded like he’d gargled with gravel.

Her burning hands inched higher and bore down again, her fingers digging in and squeezing, then settling into that kneading pattern. He tried not to breathe, but it was a losing battle. Each laboring breath drew her scent deeper into his lungs and muddied his brain, until he was drowning in her.

Standing next to the couch, Kait took a deep breath and bent over Cosky. He flinched when she settled her left palm on the ridge of
muscle to the right of his spine, and then fell rigidly still.

Bracing her arms, Kait placed her right hand on top of her left and bore down, slowly rotating her arms so her palm crawled up his back in a series of lazy, counterclockwise circles. The muscles beneath her fingers were hard and hot, steel sheathed in silk.

Her belly tightened beneath a wave of heat and her head went light. Kait choked on a shallow breath. Good lord, she’d been so fixated on the feel of him, she’d forgotten to breathe.

It was almost impossible to believe that Marcus Simcosky, the man she’d been drooling over for more years than she cared to admit, was stretched out across her couch wearing nothing but a loose pair of athletic shorts—his muscled, tanned flesh just lying there, awaiting her pleasure.

Of course, he hadn’t arrived with the intention of providing her with a buffet of sensual delights, and she fully intended to keep her promise and massage the hell out of that gorgeous, lean body in the hope she might channel some of that magical energy and jump-start the healing of his knee. But good God, she wasn’t an idiot. The good lord had provided her with a six-foot-four-inch specimen of mouthwatering masculinity, and nothing was going to stop her from enjoying the unexpected treat.

Particularly since this would be her only chance to experience the joy of his long, lean body beneath her hands.

It was clear from Cosky’s flinty expression, clipped replies, and rigid muscles, that he wasn’t enjoying this session like she was. If his knee didn’t show marked improvement after this healing, he wouldn’t be stretching himself across her couch again.

But he was here now, his flesh hard and silky beneath her fingertips. Separating her hands, she widened her thumbs and dug her
fingers into his tight back, lifting and kneading the rigid muscles. Rather than loosening, his back tightened even further.

She frowned; maybe she was digging in too deep.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, easing back slightly.

“No.”

Since his voice sounded tense and a ripple shook the flesh beneath her fingers, she eased back even more. He wouldn’t admit it if she was hurting him. Men and their silly pride.

As she neared his shoulders and the round, red scars that mottled his sleek skin, her touch gentled. She caressed the raised, rough tissue with the very tips of her fingers, carefully gliding over the puckered flesh.

Bullet wounds.

Although she’d never seen such scars before, she recognized them immediately.

Her chest tightened and her hands slowed, gliding back and forth over the angry, red puckers of flesh. She’d known he’d taken a couple of slugs to the back. But hearing about the damage and having the aftermath beneath her hands were two totally different beasts.

They were so small—barely the size of a quarter—so innocuous for the amount of damage they’d caused.

Nausea climbed her throat as she imagined the bullets plowing into him, puncturing his beautiful back—destroying muscle and bone. She stroked the scars again. This time the flesh beneath her hands twitched.

“You’re certain I’m not hurting you?” she forced the question through the sudden constriction in her throat. To think of how close he’d come to dying…

“No.”

But his voice sounded tight. The scars were red and raw. Maybe they were sensitive. She lightened her touch even more, ghosting over the area with the tips of her fingers. The skin beneath her hands twitched harder, a clear indication he wasn’t appreciating the attention. As the muscles of his back visibly tensed, she shifted up his body and bore down again, digging her fingers into his shoulders, kneading and releasing, kneading and releasing.

“Relax,” she said, reveling in the feel of him beneath her hands. Lord, he felt so good—hot, hard perfection.

A fire kindled in her belly and slowly spread, heating her from the inside out. Liquefying bone, melting muscle, bubbling through her blood.

She paused, wiping sweat from her forehead and bent over him again. But within seconds perspiration was burning her eyes and trickling down her scalp.

The heat was a good sign. Successful healings always ended with her drenched in sweat and craving a shower.