Wilder (11 page)

Chapter 19

W
hen Charisma remembered the days and months and years of hearing the earth crooning to her, when she remembered those times that she believed the support would always be there for her, her eyes half closed, and she caressed the quiet stones at her wrist. “Like a welcome home. Or a promise made with love.” Her eyes snapped open, and she glared. “Or the rumble of oncoming trouble.”

“When you first heard the earth sing, was it home and love, or was it trouble?” Guardian’s voice was a low, tired growl.

“Home and love. I thought everyone heard the earth, and I went prancing off to tell my mother about my wonderful new gift.” Charisma tried hard not to judge the foolish child she had been. “I was always trying to please my mom, one way or another. The stones warned me not to share our secret, but I didn’t understand. Yet.”

“Your mother saw in you the potential to make money?”

“You’ve never met her, and you’ve got her figured out,” Charisma marveled. But she wasn’t really surprised. His tribulations had made him sensitive in ways most men—most
people
—were not. “Yes, she saw far more potential in my weird ability than when I was little Miss No-name City. All of a sudden we were outta Tahiti and back in the States, hitting every weekend market in a tent covered with astrological symbols, with me as the prime attraction.”

“As a fortune-teller?”

“Good guess.” Charisma tried to smile, but her lips were too stiff. “She tried the fortune-telling thing first. But she lied all the time. To everyone. To me. So I balked at telling lies, and she had to change the act. She had me make charms for people. Bracelets made of crystal to protect them from harm, or to help them find love, or to give them health.”

“Wasn’t that like telling lies?”

“No. They worked.” Charisma found satisfaction in telling him that.

Interesting. She wanted to impress him.

She continued. “People would come into our tent. They would tell me their stories—how their husband cheated on them, their children neglected them, they had cancer, they were infertile, they were dying. While I listened, I’d string the stones, and when they left they carried the strength of the earth around their necks or on their wrists.”

He sat up on his elbow. “You cured the dying?”

“No. No. I never cured anything, but I helped them find peace in their fate, and a respite from pain. That was a very great thing, wasn’t it?” Still unsure, all these years later, she appealed to him.

“That is a very great thing.” Gently he reached out and smoothed her lower lip with his thumb. “But you spent your adolescence listening to unhappiness.”

“Until then, I never knew there was that much misery in the world.” For all that it had been years and years since that horrible time, Charisma discovered she couldn’t bear sympathy. Not from him. Not now. She turned her head away from his touch. “I went to child protection and told them I hadn’t attended school. My mother told them she’d been homeschooling me. She had no proof, of course, no test scores, no paperwork, and when examined, I was remarkably ignorant.”

He closed his hand, pulled it back to his side. “You faked it.”

“No, really! A year in school in Tahiti didn’t exactly prepare me to do more than read a lot.” She smiled at the memory of herself, always sitting with her head in a book. “Not that that wasn’t educational. But my reading taught me a lot about how this parent/child thing was supposed to work, at least in the real world, and I knew I wanted more than being a freak my whole life.” Bitterly she added, “Especially a freak that Mom dressed up like a ten-year-old, because a kid magic healer sold better to the tourists than a teenage magic healer.”

He didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be thinking of a way through this potential minefield. At last, he said, “I take it you won the battle to grow up.”

“I had to win sooner or later, didn’t I?”

“No. Some children never do get away from the desire to please an abusive parent.”

Charisma had never actually put it into words. She tried out the thought: Her mother had been abusive. She’d been raised by an abusive parent.
It was almost a relief to acknowledge that simple fact. “But I mostly turned out all right.”

This time he didn’t hesitate. “Yes, you did. You’re dynamic, interesting, intelligent, funny.”

“Right. I am.” She nodded. “Thanks, Guardian.”

“I didn’t do anything.” His voice was husky with exhaustion. He rolled onto his back.

“You did. You really did.” Imitating his earlier caress, she slid her thumb across his lower lip.

He closed his eyes as if her touch pained him. “So you went to school . . . ?”

“I got caught up in school, went to college, got a degree, got drafted by the Chosen Ones—”

His eyes popped open. They really were very blue. “Down here, I’ve heard rumors about the Chosen Ones. You’re one of them?”

“I am. And proud of it.”

“Pardon my ignorance,” he said in a humble voice, which she didn’t believe for a minute. “But what exactly is a Chosen One?”

“It’s almost like a fairy tale. But not a Disney fairy story. One by the Grimm Brothers. And it really is grim.” In a soft, slow, easy tone, she slid into the story. “Long ago, when the world was young, a young woman lived in a poor village on the edge of a vast, dark forest. The face she saw in the reflecting pool was glorious in its splendor, and all the men of the village competed for her favors, desiring her as their wife. Their good opinion of her was matched only by her good opinion of herself, and she declared she would take only a man whose magnificence matched her own. So she took the eldest son of the local lord, a lazy lad as famed for his dark, wavy hair and deep-set blue eyes as for his vanity. . . .”

His breath grew heavy, deep, regular.

He was asleep.

Gradually she let the story trail off. Silently she studied his face.

In sleep, without the animation of humanity and emotion, his features looked oddly more menacing, as if the beast in him lived vividly in his subconscious. Lightly she stroked the thin, short, pale fur that covered his face; it was smooth and soft to the touch.

After a moment, she pulled her hand back.

She had no right to touch him. It was a violation of his personal space. But she’d dreamed of this: exploring him, discovering the planes and textures of a body so different from any she’d ever seen. In her dream, he had allowed her to do as she wished, then insisted on returning the favor. In her dream, he had been wonderful, gentle, and so slow.

Damn dream.

Damn chastity.

Damn his testosterone, clinging to her skin from his sheets and his pillow. . . .

The hair on his face expanded at his hairline to become a luxurious mane, like a lion’s, and with one finger she stroked a single strand. It, too, was silky, inviting her to slide her hand along its length. . . .

She didn’t dare touch his scalp. He had something under his skin there, something mechanical. Something horrific.
That
she remembered from her first, brusque exploration of him, and for the first time she felt well enough to do more than simply wonder what had happened to him. She thought about it, and thought hard.

Had someone viewed him as an opportunity to make a name in the scientific world, captured him, and operated on his brain?

Or was the reality even worse than that?

After getting to know Guardian, she felt guilty for ever doubting him, fond of him for his understanding and humor, and, face it, she was hot for his body.

What a mess she had landed herself in now. She should go back to Irving’s mansion, get back to work fighting Osgood and his minions, do what she was supposed to be doing as one of the Chosen Ones.

But with the rest of the Chosen Ones out of town, she had no backup. She was still weak and way out of shape. She had sworn she was going to help Guardian discover himself once more.

That was a noble goal, too. Wasn’t it?

Yes. It was.

Although she’d known him only a little while, she saw in him a deep, pure character that needed only one thing—someone to believe in him.

Sitting up, she leaned over him and inhaled his scent. And closed her eyes.

Sunshine. A warm, sandy beach. His hands on her skin . . .

She pulled back and opened her eyes, and grounded herself in the here and now. She wasn’t on a beach. She was in this cave with the sound of water babbling across the stones, in this bed with an absolutely fabulous broad-shouldered creature whom she’d viewed naked. . . . He looked human where it counted . . . maybe a little better endowed than most men, but—

No
. She scooted back toward her own side of the bed.

She did not have to give in to this lusty desire to roll on the bed with him. Giving in to that urge had always proved to be a disaster. And face it, no matter how tempting Guardian might be, with the world on the brink of being sucked into a living version of hell, she didn’t have time for a full-blown, sweaty, moaning, good-time affair.

So. She would be good. Logical. Restrained.

Right after she gave him a single, logical, restrained kiss. Just one kiss.

Little by little, she eased back toward him, knowing this was a weak yielding on her part. An invasion of his privacy. Stupid beyond belief.

But he was so deeply asleep, and she so wanted to taste him, just once. This way she could do it without explanations or complications. . . .

Very gently, she placed her palms on either side of his head, compressing the pillow as she leaned in to hover over him, her mouth over his mouth, almost touching. . . .

She waited for—wanted—a moment of sanity to save her. But he seduced her with his scent, with the warmth of his breath, with his aura of danger. Slowly, she eased her lips onto his. . . .

And screamed when his eyes flew open, and he flipped her on her back, stared into her eyes, and snarled like a beast who had snared his prey . . . at last.

Chapter 20

G
uardian held Charisma trapped beneath his body, keeping her in place with his hands, his weight, his aggression. His furious gaze held hers, and in a guttural voice, he said, “Slumming?”

“What? No!” She was so embarrassed. He’d caught her kissing his unconscious body, like some pathetic spinster out for a clandestine thrill. “Listen, Guardian—”

But he didn’t listen. Instead, he crouched over her, keeping her imprisoned with his knees beside her hips. He gripped her upper arms, holding them close to her sides. And he
kissed
her, a full-octane, open-lipped kiss that gave no quarter, but ravished her mouth.

She struggled, trying to free her hands, to touch him, tame him, appease him, but he refused to cede an inch. Instead, his tongue sought hers. His breath filled her mouth. And she was reduced to clutching the tunic material at his waist.

When they were both breathless, he lifted his head and stared into her eyes, and pressed his erection against her belly.

Large. Hot. Determined. His motion was not a promise, but a threat.

“Guardian. Don’t.” She didn’t really mean
don’t
. She simply meant,
You don’t understand
, and,
Not while you’re angry
.

But he didn’t want to hear it. He took her lower lip between his white teeth and nibbled until desire overwhelmed wisdom and she opened her mouth to him.

He kissed her again, using his tongue to stimulate her, to imitate intercourse. In and out. In and out. A crude technique. And effective, because he swept her along, filling her senses, making her clench her legs together tightly, trying to ease her desire with pressure and movement. She whimpered, begging, needy, desperate to be one with him.

When she had touched him, kissed him, lusted after him, she hadn’t meant to start
this
. Nothing in her dream was like
this
.
This
was not a warm beach filled with leisurely lovemaking. This was a race: panting, heart racing, muscles straining. This was a blistering competition for dominance—and she had lost before she started.

He let go of her arms.

Finally she could touch him.

But he hadn’t released her hands to allow her freedom. No, he did so for his own pleasure, so he could push her shirt up. He spanned her rib cage with his fingers, plumped her breasts, ran his thumbs over and around her nipples . . . and all the while he still kissed her, as if kissing her fulfilled his every desire, as if kissing her heated him, made him hard, and harder.

Still he caged her with his body, holding her in place, immobile, while he did as he wished with her. She wanted to entice him with rhythm and movement, and all she could do was grip the fur at the nape of his neck, open her arms, and offer herself.

At last he lifted his head from her mouth.

She opened her eyes to see his face, so close to hers. His eyes, angry and oddly vulnerable. His lips, soft and smooth, wet with kissing.

He looked down at her chest, and he growled, low and deep. Bending, he feasted on her breasts. He sought her nipples with his wet, open mouth, tasted them as if her flesh gave him pleasure, and then firmly, thoroughly suckled on her, pulling against each breast with a pressure that made her cry out with lust and frustration.

He flamed with passion. He burned her with the heat of his demands. He ruthlessly compelled her sexual pleasure, and when she surrendered, he demanded more. He left her no choice. He wanted everything, every piece of Charisma that she was, every piece that she would become.

With every movement, every aggressive sexual demand, he dared her to try to escape. He wanted her to fight him, to challenge him.

She should be afraid of his strength, she knew. She was a fighter, but she had no chance against him, his power, his anger. She was a fool to trust him . . . yet she kissed his chin, stroked his back, his buttocks, his thighs.

She trusted him, God help her, when all evidence proved his ferocity.

But she knew his ferocity would take a different path tonight . . . and she wanted to walk that path.

He lifted her butt, pushed her pajama pants down, and settled her beneath him again.

It was a cruel parody of intercourse, with him on top, yet still clad in his djellaba. His knees pressed against her hips and kept her legs clamped together, yet his cock pressed lower, nudging at her slit.

He slid his finger between her tightly closed legs and found that she was damp, swollen, in such need. He moved his finger lightly against her clitoris, barely brushing the tip, a tease that made her claw at him first in frustration, then, as she climaxed, in satisfaction. “Good,” she whispered. “So good.” She had neglected her sexual needs for so long—with her history, it seemed a smart thing to do—but now she begged him, “Please, Guardian. Come inside me.”

“No.”

“Please.” She tried to spread her legs, to pull him into her. She slid her hands down to his hips and tugged at his tunic, trying to rid him of that single layer of cotton. As if that were all that separated them.

He held himself absolutely still, not breathing, not yielding.

She undulated beneath him.

He held steadfast.

But she was Charisma Fangorn. She knew how to free herself if necessary—and now it was necessary. Twisting onto her side, she extricated herself from the cage of his legs, got onto her stomach, and lifted herself to her knees.

A mistake, perhaps. She had turned her back to him. She had lifted her bare bottom into the air.

She was vulnerable. She was sexually available.

She almost heard the crack as his control shattered, like thick river ice breaking in the spring thaw.

He seized her hips in his hands, slid one arm under her belly to hold her in place. “You don’t understand what you’ve done,” he said in that dark, menacing voice that sounded more beast than man.

She braced herself, expecting assault, but his fingers lightly brushed her exposed bottom, her thighs, moved more intimately to circle the entrance to her body.

He was teasing her.

For a man wild with desire, he showed a magnificent ability to take his time.

She pushed herself onto his finger.

He allowed that.

Generous of him.

He used first one finger; then, with more difficulty, he used two and slid deep, testing her depths, her heat, her passion. He filled her, used his other fingers to open her to his view. “Look how swollen you are. You need me . . . to taste you.”

“Oh, God.” At the mere idea, she almost came again.

“To use my tongue on you.” His voice grew ever smokier. The atmosphere in the confines of the bed grew more heated, more intimate. “To teach you what happens when you provoke a man who’s more than half animal.”

“All men are more than half animal.” She was pleased at the response, pleased she could even speak.

He allowed her barely a moment of pride before he struck, replacing his hand with his lips, bringing all the skill and dedication he had used in kissing her mouth . . . to kiss her there. He sucked on her, thrust his tongue inside her, used his fingers to counterattack.

And she never had a doubt he was attacking. She had won; he had never meant to go so far.

But he would not go down in defeat. He would employ her tactics. He would use her body against her. . . .

In a moment of clarity, she saw them as they were: in a massive, legendary cave, on a giant bed, a petite woman on her hands and knees, a gigantic beast of a man behind her, both absorbed in the passionate battle between them. Both would lose. Both would win.

Who would claim victory?