Trance (23 page)

I unlaced my sneakers and shed them both without losing my balance. The material was tacky, gritty. They needed to be washed as badly as I did. I shrugged out of a light jacket and let it fall to the floor, and my belt quickly joined it. Barefoot in my jeans and T-shirt, I used the wall for guidance and found a sink.

My fingers traced over the smooth porcelain basin, around the stainless steel faucet and knobs, everything so cool to the touch. The world seemed so much larger as I explored it blindly, linked solely through the tips of my fingers
and the scents in my nose. Every flaw in the finish, every layer of soap scum brushed against my skin, as detailed as if I were looking at it.

Cool air whispered across my arms as the bathroom door opened, and then closed. A lock turned with a gentle snap. Footsteps walked toward me. Then the rustle of fabric and the thump of plastic bottles.

“It’s me,” Gage said.

I waited silently, listening to him move around the room. Behind the row of sinks was a line of toilet stalls, just like any public restroom. Somewhere to my right was a curtained door, and behind it, more curtained changing rooms. Through one more entrance were the showers. Twelve heads, six on each side, with a waist-high tiled wall between each one and down the center for moderate privacy.

The curtains rustled a few times before Gage returned to my side. He took my hand and drew me forward. I took small steps, the tiny square tiles cool and dry under my bare feet. Through the curtain and then to the left. I judged our stopping point in front of one of the changing stalls.

“Your hair is tangled,” he said. “May I brush it for you?”

My knees wobbled, and not from fatigue. No man had ever offered to do such a thing. Men rarely noticed my hair at all, except to comment on its length. One rather rude club drunkard had whispered in my ear about how he’d like to wrap it around his hand and yank on it while he fucked me. He got my drink in his face and an elbow in his stomach. I got kicked out of the joint. But that jerk and those grubby bars
were a lifetime ago, and I knew as long as I had the Rangers, I would never go back.

“Yes, you may,” I said. “Did you bring one?”

He laughed, and the sound rumbled through the room like spring thunder. “Of course.”

Fabric swished, and I felt him move from in front of me to behind. He started at the bottom, gently holding the ends and working out the tangles before proceeding higher. I never once felt an awkward or painful tug. The brush whispered, plastic-coated tines massaging my scalp with each pass. Fingers and brush worked their magic until my head tingled and my hair felt light, airy.

The brush disappeared. One hand swept hair away from the right side of my neck, and his fingers skimmed my throat. A tremor danced up my spine. His left hand curled around my waist and splayed across my stomach. I turned my head, craning up.

The kiss sent me spinning. I twisted around to face him, my arms going around his neck and shoulders. His tongue thrust gently into my mouth and slid across my teeth. I pressed my hips against him and felt his growing arousal against my belly. I wanted him—this possessive man who’d diligently protected me, been by my side almost every minute since Bakersfield. If I couldn’t see, then I damned well wanted to feel.

He broke the kiss, but kept his head close. Hot breath puffed across my moist lips. “Teresa, I didn’t plan—”

“I know.” I amazed myself by successfully placing my fingertips across his lips to shush him. “I need this, Gage. Please.”
Our world was standing still only for this moment. I couldn’t waste it knowing it might never come again.

His breath hitched, and then his hands slipped down my back and under the hem of my tee. He pulled it up and off, freeing my breasts, and then found my mouth again. I took the silent cue and tugged at the button on his jeans, but I couldn’t work the belt buckle.

Gage separated us. I heard the clink of metal and rustle of fabric, the soft snick of a zipper, the gentle whisper of clothing falling to the floor. His fingertips tickled my waist, hooked around the band of my jeans, and carefully tugged down. Hot breath caressed my thighs as he stooped to help me step out of my clothing. He didn’t stand right away, and I imagined the way he might be looking at me. A surge of heat coiled in my abdomen.

A whisper of air told me that he stood up. “Your purple is spreading, I think.”

My chin quivered. “Show me.”

Fingers danced featherlight down my left arm and gently urged it to rise. I relaxed, letting him lift my arm, and was surprised when he kissed my elbow. “There’s a small spot here.” He repeated the motion with my right arm. The second kiss sent butterflies spinning through my stomach. “And here.”

He was behind me, both hands massaging my shoulders and drifting down my spine. They stopped on the uppermost curve of my buttocks, and then his lips planted a quiet kiss in the small of my back. Warmth flooded my sex; my muscles clenched. The eroticism of those kisses, across skin that
hadn’t been washed in days, said so many things he hadn’t put into words.

“Here.” His warm breath sent more shivers up my spine.

Down he went, planting more sensual kisses on the backs of my knees. He shifted around to the front. I held my breath, waiting to feel where he touched first. He kissed my right knee. I giggled—my one ticklish spot. The left knee earned the same reaction.

“Note to self,” he said.

“Don’t you dare.”

His hot mouth circled my belly button. My stomach tightened. He made no indication of purple skin on my belly, and I wondered if the exploration was over. Then he brushed his lips across the valley between my breasts. My nipples pearled. Another kiss in the hollow between my throat and sternum. Chin, both cheeks, forehead, everywhere except my mouth. No other part of him touched me, even though his body radiated heat. Need.

I tried to control my breathing, to relax, but I didn’t know where his cunning lips would land next. His sweet breath caressed my face. He made no further move to touch. Frustration building, I reached out, only to have his hands grasp mine.

“No touching yet.”

“Cruel.”

“Yep.”

My skin was so sensitized that sudden heat or cold would probably make me jump a yard. My heart thundered in my ears as I waited. Anticipated.

He released my hands. A cool breeze signaled that he’d moved away, beyond my reach. Metal squealed. The swoosh of running water startled me. I smelled the light odor of chlorine. More squeaks, then the hushed change of water pressure as Gage adjusted the temperature. A cloud of moist air tickled my ankles. Footsteps squished against the tiled floor. He took my hand and tugged me forward.

“I won’t let you fall,” he said.

The tiles beneath my feet changed, became warmer and smaller, and soon very wet. Hot water pooled around my toes. I splashed into it moments before the hot spray hit my bare skin. The shock took my breath away. Gage released my hand. I moved closer to the spray, allowing the needles of water to massage away the day’s stress. I turned. It coursed through my hair, soaking it to the scalp. I ignored my audience and reveled in the heat and steam; I couldn’t remember the last time a shower felt so wonderful.

“What is it? You made a face.”

I looked toward the sound of his voice, a little disoriented. It bounced off the walls and mixed with the hiss of the water. “I was just thinking I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Which part?”

“The shower.” But now that he mentioned it … “Any of this. It’s been a few—a while.”

He touched my shoulder, and I jumped. He pulled back, and all I knew was the rush of water streaming to the floor.

“Gage?”

“We don’t have to, if you’re not ready, Teresa.”

He was still giving me an out. Did I want him to stop after
we’d come so far? No. Not even a little bit. I wanted him here with me.

“Did you bring shampoo?” I asked by way of answer.

“Of course.”

A bottle found its way into my hand. I tested its size and shape and decided it was mine. “Conditioner?”

“What?”

“The matching bottle that should have been next to this one.”

A short pause and then, “I’m sorry, I just brought the shampoo.”

“I don’t care.” I reached out. He clasped my hand. “Help me do this?”

He took the bottle and spun me so I faced the spray. It hammered against my breasts and misted up into my face, creating more delicious sensations. I closed my blind eyes against the assault.

The familiar snap of the bottle cap preceded his hands in my hair. Fingers massaged my scalp, working the cool gel, down to the roots. From the top, across the sides to my temples, around to the middle and down to my neck. Over and over, a mesmerizing swirl of touch and scent as citrus permeated the air.

His hand touched my shoulder and directed me to turn. Hot water pounded against my scalp. It tingled; I throbbed. Who knew hair washing could be so damned erotic? He carefully rinsed the shampoo out and finger-combed the long strands. Never once did he pull or tug or hurt. The hair-dresser at Sally’s Scissors was never as gentle.

“One step forward,” he said.

The new position angled the water toward the middle of my back. Squelching sounds and another bottle snap—he was lathering something up. The scent of jasmine and vanilla joined the citrus.

“Turn around.”

I faced the spray, the water once again hitting my breasts and doing an excellent job of heightening my excitement. A washcloth pressed against my back. Gage rubbed the soapy terry rag in slow, circular patterns across my shoulders; lifted my hair to reach the back of my neck and trailed the rag down my right arm. I extended it without thought, allowing him to soap my elbow and hand. He took care to stroke each finger, my thumb and palm, and across the underside of my wrist.

The smooth cloth never broke contact with my skin as it whispered back across my shoulders and repeated the gentle ministrations on my left arm. I panted, unable to take a proper breath, overwhelmed by desire and his massaging touch. Steam billowed into my face. The rag snaked across my back, and then up and down, soapy terry cloth caressing each rib and vertebrae. He gently swept across the small of my back, and then the cloth disappeared. My body ached for his touch. Lost without the grounding influence, I thought I would fall off the edge of the earth.

“More soap,” he said.

I waited, my washed skin tingling and the unwashed left wanting. Tiny tremors stole through my abdomen. I clenched my fists and shifted from foot to foot. I wanted—
needed—to touch him. Or myself. Something. No touching, he had said. It was torture of the most exquisite kind, and I trusted Gage implicitly. I just needed some sort of release before I combusted.

He started again with my left ankle, soaping each toe, tickling the sole, up and down my calf. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling when he washed my knee. With precise movements, he stroked my thigh, his hand rising so close, but never to the right place. My hips jerked, daring him to touch the one spot he studiously avoided. He laughed; I loved that sound.

His hand brushed the crease where my butt met my leg, and I trembled. Ached for him. He switched to my right leg, repeating the careful, torturous motions, from toes to thigh. The sweet ache inside me coiled tighter with every brush of cloth on skin, until I thought I might burst. My lungs hitched. I felt ready to fly to pieces.

One deliberate stroke of the rag scorched down my buttocks, top to bottom. I clenched my inner muscles as tremor after tremor of pleasure surged through me, so fast and sharp that my upper body jerked. I cried out at the sudden, unexpected release. Tipping forward, I pressed my palms against the wall. It passed quickly, but left me breathless, my body trembling for more.

“Teresa?”

I inhaled deeply, my mind reeling. “That was incredible.”

“Did you just—?”

“Yep.” I straightened and turned toward the sound of his voice, expressing what I hoped was an appropriate amount
of awe. I couldn’t seem to command my muscles properly. “I have never orgasmed without … you know, touching.”

“I’d say there was plenty of touching involved.” I could hear the smile in his voice, pride in his accomplishment.

“Yeah, but for the most part it was appropriate touching. Don’t you want to see how inappropriate we can get?”

“We haven’t even finished your shower.”

“Don’t care.”

His hands brushed my cheeks and I pressed into his touch, desperate to see what was in his eyes. Etched on his face. “You’re sure?”

Half of me hated that our first time was about to be standing up, in a shower, probably somewhat awkward with me blinded by my own powers. The other half didn’t care—craved it, in fact. It had been too long since I’d let myself go, too many years spent bottled up and closed off. I needed the connection, and I wanted it to be with him.

I said, “As I’ve ever been about anything, Gage,” and deliberately drew my tongue across my lips.

The bait worked. His arms were around my waist, and then my back was pressed against the cool tile wall. He captured my mouth in a dizzying kiss, and I returned his eagerness, falling into the heady taste of him. My senses were sharper than I’d ever known. Keener, taking in every detail of smell and sound, memorizing by touch what I couldn’t have by sight. His left hand traveled down my right hip and lifted my leg. I reached between us, and he hissed when I touched him. Stroked him. Helped him ease inside.

I gasped as sensation after delicious sensation poured
through me, stroking already hypersensitized nerves. I tried imagining his face, mouth open and panting. Silver-flecked eyes looking into mine, cheeks red from exertion. Water trickling down the line of his chiseled jaw, across his throat, and dripping down onto his heaving chest—so clear in my mind.

Blazing heat spread throughout my body, and we kissed again, our dueling tongues matching his powerful strokes. Nothing existed except our gasping lungs and pounding hearts—creating a spellbinding rhythm that drowned out every other sound. Colorful spots interrupted the veil of purple across my vision and blended into a painter’s palette. Joy bubbled up, frothed with bliss and, at last, shattered on the surface.