The Problem with Promises

Book 3: A Mystwalker Novel

by Leigh Evans

Genres: Paranormal; Urban Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

NEVER MAKE A PROMISE…

Robson Trowbridge, the Alpha of Creemore and my gorgeous mate, tries to protect me, Hedi Peacock, half-Fae, half-were, from all the trouble I get into. The thing is, my past is pretty messy and bad guys keep knocking down my door. Witches, thug bikers, the North American Council of Weres, dark magic Fae, and even an evil wizard are all after me. The Old Mage is the only one I really care about: He has my dear twin brother captive on the other side of the Gates of Merenwyn—not cool. So my alpha love is helping me to keep my promise to free my brother…

YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO KEEP.

Unfortunately, everyone who helps me ends up in a heap of trouble too—including my Trowbridge. Now, I admit I've had my moments as a shivering coward, hoping he will come to my brave rescue. The whole Prince Charming thing is hard to shake. But these bad guys after me mean business and those damsel in distress days are over. You know that "last straw" metaphor? That was two straws ago. It's now or never. Again…

The Problem with Promises is the third Mystwalker Novel from Leigh Evans.

"A brilliant new take on fairies, werewolves, and magic…I am officially addicted."
—Chloe Neill, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: February 25, 2014

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One


Trowbridge's belly button was kind of amazing—the tip of my baby finger fit perfectly in its shallow divot. Underneath it, the muscle was a hard slab. I stroked it again, marveling how two opposites could be such a good fit.
For instance, if you're talking navels, I have to admit mine is deep. Only my Goddess knows exactly how deep. I've never stuck my finger in it to check, possibly because you don't do that sort thing when you have an inner-bitch taking a snooze by your spine. She might bite it. Or worse—my Fae might grab it because she's the type of ride-along persona given to doing "gotcha" crap like that.
Shortly after Biggs had drained the bottle of Coke, Trowbridge and I had come upstairs to our personal sanctuary to catch a couple of hours of sleep before "the Sisters"—what the pack calls a certain coven of witches who practice dark arts—arrived at eleven.
To be honest, I'd anticipated lust—after all, he'd given me a slightly worn wink as we'd stumbled up the stairs, and let's face it, Weres are randy as hell—but by the time I'd come back out of the washroom from my presleep tinkle, he'd crashed into a sleep that bordered on coma.
I knew he was exhausted but how does a person do that? Close their eyes and fall instantly asleep? I wish I could do that. But sleep was an avenue for dream-walking, and that activity was a potential doorway to Threall. Unfortunately—given that most of us mystwalkers found the realm of souls kind of fascinating—every trip to the land of myst was akin to playing roulette with a loaded weapon. Why? Because every time a mystwalker traveled to that realm, she reduced her chances of remembering how to return to her own.
Goddess, this feeling I keep smothering—a touch of self-hatred melded to worry and fear—better not be the new normal.
"Trowbridge?" I whispered to my mate. "Will it get better?"
No answer. The bed hog lay flat on his back, one arm folded over his head, the other loosely wrapped around me. He's pretty, my Trowbridge. Though, in my opinion, he was too thin, even if he was sporting some new and disturbingly magnificent muscles.
I wrote "Move over, Stud-muffin" on his chest. With my nail. Very lightly. Because there's such a thing as poking a stick at a sleeping bear. And because he had a thatch of hair between his nipples. Not terribly dense. Just enough to say "Here be a manly man," and I enjoyed the feeling of the curve of my nail sliding through it.
I glanced at the clock, wishing someone had reset it. How much longer before the witches flew in on their brooms? Neither Trowbridge nor I had any love for women who practice dark arts but we required their services. Tomorrow at sunset, we planned to summon the Gates of Merenwyn. Ideally, we wanted to do that without the pack noticing because the return of the portal would prompt awkward questions, like "Hey, are they breaking the treaty again?" Or "By golly, have they brought back her brother? I thought he was dead?"
Either topic is a line of inquiry we'd like to avoid.
However, keeping our trip to Merenwyn on the down low was going to be difficult without some help. The portal has a distinctive floral scent that even a Were with a head cold could detect. And then there are the pink-white lights and the chime of bells.
No. We needed another illusion ward, set precisely where Mannus had ordered one cast six months ago—right over the entire fairy pond. That way we could go to and fro without anyone being the wiser.
Though for the record, there was an additional and far less optimistic reason that we required a sheet of magic pulled over the pond like a piece of plastic wrap—failure. What if our seminoble quest ended in disaster? What if we couldn't rescue my brother and destroy the Book of Spells? Bad things could drip into this world through the Fae portal. Trowbridge worried that the lives of his wolves would be threatened. I couldn't quite muster the same level of concern.
It would require more saintly qualities than I possessed to forgive people who'd tied me to the old oak tree. The scent of their blood lust had filled my nose.
Enough. I need to move. If only to get up and trot around to the other side to restart the whole roll-over game.
Merry was hanging from the lampshade, right where I'd placed her before turning the light out. I hadn't wanted to put her on the bedside table because the wooden surface hadn't been wiped down with Pine-Sol (the cleaning-product choice among Weres), and there was still a touch of the fugly Mannus scent to it. An oversight on the part of the cleaning team who'd karate-chopped the throw pillows?
I think not.
Score another point for the League of Extraordinary Bitches.
Ralph, the amulet beside Merry, hung unmoving beside her on the parchment shade, either asleep or pretending to be.
Trowbridge said something like "Mrrrph" as I squirmed over him to reach for her.
My amulet gave me a little wink of light as I pulled her chain over my head. In another life, Merry would have done well as a mime. She can't talk, as she's imprisoned inside a hunk of amber that's been set into a pendant fashioned from a nest of Fae gold, but she manages to express herself very well through movement and color shows.
She hadn't interacted much with Ralph since she'd returned from the Fae realm. Which was interesting as her amber stone used to pinken at the sight of him. Understandable, to an extent. The Royal Amulet was astonishingly pretty, what with his brilliantly cut jewel and his manly Celtic setting. Though, in my opinion, even the artistry of his setting couldn't make up for the fact that personalitywise, he was a pain in the butt.
Evidently, she no longer considered him the rock star among her people.
I wish I knew why. One day, maybe she would tell me in her own way. I hope so, because I count her as my friend. Matter of fact, I don't like going anywhere without her. Even if all I needed to do was pace the threadbare carpet that still carried the faint scent tones of the master bedroom's former occupant.
Put that on the list: replace all soft furnishings and strip the wallpaper.
* * *
The second I rolled off Trowbridge and swung a leg over the side of the bed, he woke up—fast. None of this bleary-eyed stuff for my guy. He went straight from limp to warrior. Lunging for me as if someone had snatched me right out of his arms, at the same time blindly reaching for something beside him. Which wasn't there. With a downright feral snarl he turned to check for the weapon that he'd obviously grown used to sleeping with. The one he'd evidently left in Merenwyn. What was it? A blade? An axe? A wooden staff?
His gaze did a lightning sweep of the room, taking in all the doors—the bedroom, the closet, the bathroom—then the window, and finally, me and Merry.
"Go back to sleep," I told him. "The witches aren't here yet."
But that was as pointless as expecting a Jack in the Box to fold up and close his own lid. He was awake. Tired blue eyes studied me.
I tugged my arm free with a wince. I had a bite wound that I'd received in Threall and it was throbbing again. "I'm going downstairs."
"Stay," he said.
"That's got to be your favorite word."
"Don't go."
"Second favorite word," I said, walking to the window.
"That's two words." He swung his feet over the side of the bed and scrubbed his hands over the stiff bristles of his hair. "I'm awake."
But you shouldn't be—not with those purple smudges under your eyes.
"Come back to bed," he said, his tone all butter and temptation.
I eyed his body in all its near-perfection. The few scars he'd kept looked good on him. "If I get in that bed, you're going to make love to me."
Even in the half dark of the room, I could see his decidedly naughty grin. "And that would be a bad thing?"
Normally, all I had to do was inhale the clean scent of him, and I was a goner. And if he'd been awake when I'd sashayed out of the ladies', we'd have enjoyed each other. But I'd had time to brood. Guilt asked, in a withering voice, "Hedi, do you have any right to enjoy being held and loved, after you sent your twin to hell?"
My face must have reflected my answer to that puzzler.
"Oh," he said.
"Oh," I echoed, a tad sadly.
Trowbridge's wistful gaze dipped toward the girls and I turned back to the window before all parts of him woke up. "Do you know what time it is?"
The mattress protested as Trowbridge got up. He came up behind me to wrap an arm—muscled, hard, warm—around my ribs. He eased me against his hard body as his hand slipped upward to cup my boob. He lifted it, so that it plumped in his palm, as he considered the night sky. "Around eleven."
"Does the sky look the same there?" I asked him.
"In Merenwyn?" His chest rose and fell. "No, the stars are different. There's no Big Dipper or North Star."
"What does it have instead?"
"The moon is lower and bigger." He studied the sky silently, perhaps lost in his memories. "There's a cluster of smaller stars called Caitlin's Daughters. People make wishes on them."
"Do their dreams come true?"
"Not that I can see." His palm slid along my skin until it encountered the chain I wore low around my hips. That sent the soft leather pouch hanging from the end of the bride belt, swinging. Inside the little bag were seven stones, clear as diamonds but far more valuable. "Why can't you sleep?"
I gave him a mute shrug.
"The first obstacle has been passed, Tink," he said softly. "The Old Mage must have succeeded in merging his soul with your brother's." His thumb absently brushed my nipple. It hardened.
Hedi, the mouse-hearted.
Hedi, the betrayer.
"What makes you so sure of that?" I asked.
"We're not dead," he said with his usual bluntness.
"Good point."
Trowbridge rubbed his chin against my shoulder. "You're worrying about him."
I nodded.
"Did you get any sleep?"
I shook my head. "I can't stop thinking."
His exhale spoke volumes. "We're going to have to work on that." Then he leaned back a bit, so that he could gather my hair and draw it over my right shoulder. He set to gently untangling the knots in my rat's nest. Immediately, my nipples beaded—the backs of his knuckles were warm on the slope of my breast.
I let out a sigh, part pleasure, part sadness.
"Tell me what's bothering you most," he said, working on a difficult snare.
I swallowed. "I spent ten minutes as the Old Mage's nalera … and it almost drove me insane. You're naked. Every secret, every weakness, everything you like to hide from others, it's there. Accessible for your mage's interest and use." I waited for him to say, "Don't feel bad," or maybe, "Clearly, love of my life, you had no choice."
Instead Gorgeous finished with the knot, then said gruffly, "Go on."
The stars blurred.
"Lexi's the Old Mage's bitch now," I said in an anguished rush. "Every single thought he has is being examined—"
"Hedi," Trowbridge cut in. "You have to remember that your brother lived a long time in the Fae's Royal court. He's had lots of practice shielding his thoughts."
I slumped against him, thinking how we'd waited until Lexi was so weak that he couldn't stand, couldn't talk, couldn't walk.
"Sweetheart," he said, moving his leg so that I could be cradled closer. "One day you will be required to become a leader, and there are going to be things you'll need to do that will leave you awake at night. It will harden you. And eventually you'll wonder if you have any humanity left inside you. But you'll have to push past that. You'll have to force yourself to grab sleep when you can. To eat when you must. To keep going, no matter what."
"What are you talking about, Trowbridge?" I turned, lifting a shoulder. "I have as much interest in leading people as I do in sitting for a group sing. I'm not a leader. I'll never be one."
He said something under his breath that sounded a whole lot like "Not yet, anyhow."
I pushed away and leaned against the window frame. The glass was cold. I covered Merry with my palm and she sent me a throb of heat.
"Sweetheart, look at me."
I considered that, and didn't resist when he turned me gently to face him. Gravely, he cupped my face. For the longest moment, he studied me, with an intensity that made me feel like he was memorizing my features.
"What is it?"
"If I could keep you like this," he said fiercely, "untouched and safe from everything harmful, I swear to God I would. You are perfect, just like this." Mouth set in a flat line, he stroked my jaw. "But I can't keep you out of trouble, no matter how much I want to, Hedi Peacock."
He was freaking me out.
I gave him a weak smile. "If we live through all this, I'm going to turn into the most boring person in the world. I'm going to take up knitting. And baking." Then I tipped my head toward the window. "Also, I'm going to fix your front yard. It needs flowers, Trowbridge." One corner of his mouth lifted, so I added, "After that? Maybe Tai Chi."
"Good luck with that." My lover tucked a strand of my hair behind my pointed ear. "Tink. You're attracted to danger."
"I am not. Whenever I see it, I run like hell."
"No you don't. You run right into trouble."
"Do not."
Real amusement softened his tone. "Let's see what you've done in the last twelve hours. You bargained with a mage and stared Cordelia down. Of the two I don't know which is the bigger deal." His gaze went to my mouth, clung there. "Sweetheart, you defy me every chance you get. You wrote ‘Stud-muffin' on my chest."
"I thought you were asleep."
"I was concentrating with my eyes closed." A ghost of a grin flitted across his face. "You came close to losing me with the double f's." He gazed at me, face somber. "We're heading for a shit-storm, Tink."
"I know," I whispered.
Blue eyes turned predator cold. "Remember this. Whatever happens—whatever it takes—we can't allow the Black Mage to walk through worlds. That bastard has no place in ours."
Unsettled, I dragged my gaze from him. Searched for something calming, and found it in the blue flower sprigs peppered across the wallpaper. Very small, very sweet. Oh Goddess, let me be wrong. "You're going to Merenwyn to kill him, aren't you?"
"There will be no peace for the Raha'ells until I do."
I closed my eyes briefly. Them again. "The Black Mage has magic. And guards. While you'll be armed with nothing more than hatred and the notion that his death will right a wrong that's based on prejudice and fear. I know you miss your Merenwyn pack and feel responsible for them. But risking your life—"
"That's what an Alpha does for his pack."
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.
I should tell him he has no body fat. It would be a kindness.
I traced the ridges of his abdomen muscles.
Nah.
"Tink," he said.
"Mm-hmm."
Trowbridge rolled his head. Blue eyes, the color of the Mediterranean. Faint purple shadows below. A vein cut across the top of his right cheekbone. "Harry's coming up the stairs."
"Damn." I glanced wistfully at the tub.
Trowbridge covered his eyes with his forearm while we listened to Harry's footsteps. Our second stopped in front of our door. There was a long pause. Then coins jingled. Harry's thinking. The scent of our lovemaking must perfume the entire upper floor.
"What is it, Harry?" called Trowbridge, his mouth barely moving.
"They've found Newland, boss. They're bringing him in."


Copyright © 2014 by Leigh Evans