Never Again (19 page)
She was surprised he could find anything. Every room she’d been in was a ceiling-to-floor mess. The front room had big, bulky furniture piled with clothes and books and boxes. It spilled over the tables and onto the floor. She’d spotted cobwebs in every corner and dust coated everything—including the family photos, mirrors, and clocks.
What on earth did Gray do every day that he couldn’t be bothered with even minor housekeeping? Maybe his Guardian duties kept him so busy that he didn’t have time to pick up. She glanced around the kitchen, and grimaced. Dishes towered on both sides of the ceramic sink. Spellbooks, spice jars, bowls of herbs, and crystals littered the counters. The stove needed a good scrubbing; she shuddered to think what the oven looked like.
Lucinda determined right then and there the first way she could help Gray. She would get his house in order. That was something that a wife did, right? She didn’t have a lot of experience with housework. She’d never had chores as a child—and her mother certainly hadn’t known a dishrag from a duster. After her mom died, Lucinda spent a lot of time struggling to survive—and hadn’t lived anywhere long enough to clean it. When she became Bernard’s mistress, she never had to lift a finger—not even when she’d been relegated to the penthouse harem. Still. How difficult could it be?
She glanced around the kitchen, feeling even more inadequate. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could do some basic recipes like lasagna and stew. Determination straightened her spine. She could learn her way around the kitchen. It was a goal—a goal that didn’t involve figuring out how she was going to eat, where she was going to sleep, what else she had to do to escape Bernard’s very long reach.
Clean house. Learn to cook. Be a good wife.
Simple, right?
“You’re pale,” said Gray. He stopped searching for a mug and crossed to her, kneeling at her feet. His gaze roved over her face, and he looked so concerned. Why? She knew the truth of their marriage. He’d made it clear that feelings were not involved in their relationship. She had to remember that. She knew too well how easy it was to fall into the trap of the heart—though Bernard had never truly held hers. He was a master manipulator, a puppeteer who knew which strings to pull. She was ashamed that she’d fallen for his tripe, that she’d allowed herself to become snared in his silky web.
“What must I do,” Gray asked as he cupped her face, “to chase away those shadows in your eyes?”
Lucinda met his gaze and realized he was driven too hard by his own guilt. So ingrained were the concepts of duty and integrity in his conscience that he would fulfill every vow he made to her. In being her husband in all ways, he might make her forget her promise to remember nothing real lay between them.
“I’m merely tired.” She ran her fingers through his hair, thrilled that she had the right to do so. Her husband. Had anyone told her she would one day marry Gray Calhoun, she would’ve called them crazy. But it seemed she was the crazy one.
His gaze had darkened, from blue sky to stormy sea. He pulled her hand from his hair and kissed her knuckles. Did he realize how romantic such gestures were? Probably not. It was his nature to treat women with such care. Not even Kerren’s betrayal could erase his respect for females and his innate need to protect them.
“Can you sit at the edge of the chair?” he asked.
She didn’t ask why; she simply scooted to the edge, and waited. He seemed pleased by her acquiescence, and grasped the bottom of her thin but voluminous dress.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“It’s phase one in my plan to change that look in your eyes.” He gazed up at her. “Just for a little while, I don’t want you to feel sad.”
“Oh? And you can do this how?”
“I’ll show you, wife.” He gathered her dress, laying the folds across her thighs. “Hold on to this. And open for me.”
“I didn’t . . . ” She clutched the material and licked her lips. “There wasn’t any . . . ” Her face went hot. Gray’s eyebrows went up as he waited for her to finish a sentence. “Panties,” she managed.
“Show me,” he said, his voice husky. “Now.”
She did so, revealing her lack of underwear. The ones she’d been wearing hadn’t been washed, she had no idea where her duffel bag was, and she’d been too embarrassed to ask Gray about procuring undergarments. She hadn’t even put on a bra, a fact made obvious by the thin material.
For a moment, Gray said nothing as he took in his fill of her nether regions. She felt vulnerable and nervous. It was strange showing him her . . .
goods
like this. What was he doing?
goods
like this. What was he doing?
He leaned down and planted a kiss on her clit.
She gasped. “Gray!”
“What?”
“You can’t think you’re going to”—she sucked in an unsteady breath—“do something. Down there.”
He straightened and looked at her. “You’ve had lovers,” he said. “You’re telling me not one man has ever explored such a delectable spot?”
Embarrassment flooded her and her whole face felt as though she’d dipped it in lava. She glanced away from him. “No.”
“Lucinda. Look at me.”
It took effort—she still had
some
pride—but she managed to meet his gaze.
some
pride—but she managed to meet his gaze.
“I don’t care how many lovers you’ve had,” he said. “We are only for each other now. That’s all that matters.”
She didn’t want him to think that she’d slept with a bunch of men. Maybe he didn’t care, but she did. She wasn’t a whore, even though Bernard had made her feel like one. And he had never, not once, put his mouth against her like Gray just had to bring her pleasure. In fact, she rarely received any pleasure at all from their couplings, which he’d squarely put on her.
You’re frigid, darling. But don’t worry. I will always love my little ice queen.
You’re frigid, darling. But don’t worry. I will always love my little ice queen.
“How many men do you believe would sleep with a Rackmore?” she asked softly. “After the great reckoning, no one would talk to me, much less date me. I never knew a man until Bernard.” She couldn’t resist touching Gray’s hair again. He didn’t seem to mind at all. She’d always had to be so careful with Bernard. He didn’t like to be touched—and she had craved it. She always had to check her impulses to seek affection. To give affection. “He never made me feel the way you did in our dream.”
“And how was that?” His gaze was enigmatic, his hands resting on her thighs, his thumbs rubbing circles.
“Like I was on fire and you were the only one who could put out the flames.”
“That’s how it should be,” said Gray. He studied her, and she couldn’t name the emotion glittering in his eyes. “You’ve only slept with him?”
“I wish I hadn’t,” she said, her tone bitter. “I wish I had never met him.”
“I know that feeling well enough.”
“Aren’t we a pair?” She laughed hollowly. “So much baggage between the two of us it’s a wonder we can walk anywhere at all.” She stroked the scar on his temple. “What are we doing, Gray? Have we made a mistake?”
“We’ve chosen our path together, Lucy.” He turned his head to kiss her palm. Then he looked at her. “I won’t abandon you.”
She hadn’t realized she was going to cry until the tears fell. How had he known what she hadn’t quite realized? She did feel abandoned—by her father, who committed suicide, by her mother, who catered to a lover until her heart literally gave out, by her sister, who was a callous bitch. Every relationship she’d ever had reinforced a single painful truth:
Nobody wants me.
Nobody wants me.
Was it any wonder she ate the crumbs of affection that Bernard tossed her way? He’d been a cruel man, lavishing her with presents one week, beating her senseless the next. It didn’t matter than he’d used his magic to make sure she was malleable.
She was so ashamed. Even now when she felt safe and she was free, she felt unworthy of Gray’s protection—and she hated that she needed it. Needed him. Because she wasn’t strong enough on her own.
“Lucy.”
She looked down at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t seem to stop crying.”
“Open for me, baby. Let me make you feel good.”
It was all he could offer her, she realized. Physical pleasure was the comfort he could give, and she would take it. She didn’t want to feel sad anymore, either. So, she opened her thighs and gripped his hair as he leaned forward.
“You are luscious.” She felt the sweep of his tongue along her labia, first one side, then the other. A pause to tease her clit with short, rough strokes. Then he rained small, sweet kisses along her swollen flesh.
Pleasure sparkled—champagne bubbles, sunlight dancing on spring flowers, the unexpected eddies in a clear stream.
She let her head fall back and her eyes drift close.
He took his time, went exquisitely slow. Tasting. Licking. Kissing. He lapped the evidence of her desire like a man savoring a rare dessert. Her skin tingled, and her nipples were hard and aching. She couldn’t quite catch her breath, and she felt like her heart would beat right out of her chest.
The coil of bliss tightened . . . and tightened.
“Gray.” His name was a plea.
He rapidly flicked his tongue over her clit, bringing her closer and closer to the peak.
She moaned.
His fingers dug into her thighs.
Then he suckled her, hard.
She imploded.
She nearly fell off the chair, but Gray held firm, not complaining as her fingers yanked at his hair. He pressed his face against her, allowing her pulsations to suck at his tongue.
The sensations were . . . Goddess,
incredible
wasn’t even a good enough word to describe how she felt. It was wind-rushing, ocean-crashing, star-falling beautiful.
incredible
wasn’t even a good enough word to describe how she felt. It was wind-rushing, ocean-crashing, star-falling beautiful.
Eventually she floated back into her body.
When she opened her eyes, Gray was still kneeling at her feet. She saw the satisfaction in his gaze, and of course, there was the lust. The same lust that echoed within her. At least they had this connection, if nothing else.
“I think I died,” she said.
“I was the one in heaven.”
She laughed, feeling lighter than she’d felt in ages. Physical release wasn’t a bad way at all to lift a bad mood. In fact, it was now her number one favorite way to feel better.
Gray placed one last, lingering kiss on her, and then he pulled down the dress. He stood up, his gaze still on hers. What now? she wondered. She felt awkward, and unsure. She’d never initiated sex with Bernard. He would’ve never tolerated anyone else being the aggressor in such things.
“We should go upstairs,” she said. “Unless . . . you prefer it here, as well. We could change places.” She wished she felt more confident. Slowly, she reached out to touch the very obvious hard-on in his pants.
“Lucy.” He moved out of her range. “It doesn’t work like that.”
She frowned at his crotch. “I’m pretty sure they all work the same way.”
He snorted with laughter. “That’s not what I meant. C’mon.” He offered his hands, and she took them. Then he helped her stand.
Her legs were like noodles, and she crumpled.
Gray scooped her up. “You need to rest before the wake.”
“But we’re not finished. At least, you’re not. Hey!” She glared at him. “Are you bossing me around?”
“Yes.” He kissed her. Fully. Deeply. She tasted her own essence on the sweep of his tongue. “I plan to take you to bed. A lot.”
“I suppose I shall just have to tolerate your animal lusts,” she said primly.
“I appreciate you suffering through it,” he responded. “Perhaps you could keep the screaming to a minimum?”
She smiled. “Not a chance.”
Chapter 8
By the time Taylor got back to his office, he had little more than an hour to get ready for the wake. Word traveled fast in Nevermore, and he had no doubt everyone would be at the café to pay their last respects to sweet little Marcy, especially since no one had been invited to the actual funeral.
Cathleen was one of the most worthless human beings he’d ever had the displeasure of knowing. He couldn’t believe Leland Munch had the stomach to date the woman, much less marry her. Half the town suspected Cathleen had somehow caused her husband’s death, and Taylor did, too. Oh, not on purpose. He figured Leland died just to get away from her. He sighed. The world could be damned unfair. He unlocked the office and didn’t bother turning on the lights. He knew the place well enough he could navigate it blind. He sat down heavily at his desk and turned on the lamp. The circle of light revealed the photos of the accident he and Ren had worked yesterday.
The Mustang had been a classic, a real beaut, or would’ve been without those flames painted on the hood. The car and its driver had been totaled, which was what happened when idiots drank too much whiskey and got into pissing contests with immovable objects—like the two-hundred-year-old oak tree that marked the fork in the road. Folks could continue right up Brujo Boulevard and to the Daisy Estates, which was really just a big ol’ square of ten hundred-year-old houses, some fancy, others not, or go left up to Old Creek, which led to Harley and Ren’s farm, the cemetery, and, at the end, the lake.
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