Ignoring the first rule he’d taught her, she turned away from him and headed toward the stairs.
He brought her down with a single quick kick to the backs of her knees.
She tumbled face-first onto the mat, and just lay there.
Hands up, he stood waiting for her attack.
She didn’t move. Just pressed her face to the floor.
And he realized she was crying.
“No.” This was not what he wanted. “No. Fighters don’t cry. Black belts don’t cry. You don’t cry.”
She didn’t answer. She remained there, shoulders shaking, making no noise at all. But she was definitely miserable, and somehow he had to deal with it.
Warily, still half convinced this was a trick, he knelt beside her.
She didn’t knock the shit out of him, so he guessed it wasn’t.
“Listen.” He placed his hand on her head. “You’re a good student. One of the best I’ve ever taught.”
A single loud sob wrenched out of her; it was pure, distilled agony. Then she pressed her arm to her mouth.
He slid his hand down to her back, and rubbed it in a slow circle. “Did he rape you? Is that why you’re crying?”
She flipped over so fast, he leaped back. “Is that what you think?” Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks wet, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “That’s all that could be wrong? That Wyatt raped me?”
She wasn’t going to distract him. “Did he?”
“No. He was afraid of me.” She started to sob again. “He thought—he said—I was a freak.”
“You are not a freak.” Caleb wiped his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of his gi.
“Really?” She shoved her palm into his face. “Then how do you explain this?”
Caleb stared at the birthmark on her palm. It looked like a tattoo, a stylized human eye in black ink. The mark was mesmerizing, and in Zusane’s world, it meant something very specific—it meant that Jacqueline was a seer of amazing power.
In Wyatt’s world, it meant she could be sold for a profit to the Others to be used as a sacrifice to the powers of darkness.
She wasn’t likely to forget that.
Taking her hand in his, he said, “There are ignorant people in this world—”
“Like Wyatt? Yeah, I got that. He’s ignorant. He’s a jackass. And he said he liked me. He said he wanted to date me. He said I was fun and cool and interesting. And I believed him. So if he’s an ignorant jackass, what does that make me?” She was red-faced and defiant, yelling at him.
He was a guy, ill equipped to deal with this kind of breakdown. So he offered to do what he’d been itching to do anyway. “Do you want me to take him out? Because I can.”
“No, I don’t want you to take him out. What I want is to have a normal life, where I date guys who don’t want to kill me, and study something dull like accounting, and get married and have normal children—and I’ll never get any of that, because Zusane says I have a
fate
.”
“I know.”
“I could deal with that. I really could. But here’s the question I’ve been wondering.” She thrust her face close to his. “How did you find out I was in danger?”
“Zusane knew. She sent me.”
“She sent you? She
sent
you? She knew I was going to be killed and she sent . . . you? Wow, how maternal of her.” Jacqueline’s eyes overflowed again, her voice wobbled, and her sobs interrupted every other word. “Did it . . . ever occur . . . to her . . . that I . . . might . . . want . . . my mother?”
“She wanted to come but—”
“But she was . . . on her honeymoon? Do you think I don’t . . . get that? Do you think this is the . . . first time she’s been too busy for . . . me? My God. My God. I’ve got nobody. Nobody. Nobody gives a damn about me. Nobody.” Jacqueline’s voice rose to a shriek.
He couldn’t stand it anymore. Tenderness overwhelmed his good sense, and he put his arms around her and whispered, “I care. I care too much.”
“You do not.” She pushed at him, furious at what she saw as condescending reassurance.
He pulled her closer. “This isn’t the time, and I don’t have the right, but I don’t lie.”
“Right. You care about me. Like a brother who watched me grow up. I suppose I should be grateful for that!”
His laughter wavered. “Not like a brother. Are you insane? I’ve never thought of you like that. Do you think I’m proud of this? I’m nine years older than you and you’re nothing but a”—she plunged her hand underneath the elastic at his waist—“child,” he finished, and his voice cracked with surprise.
She wrapped her fingers around his erection. Her startled gaze flew to meet his.
“I told you I don’t lie.” He waited for her to retreat, to run away from the evidence that he did want her.
But one thing he had learned during the days of fighting lessons—Jacqueline didn’t retreat. Instead she put her hand on his chest and shoved him to the mat—and the other hand, the one in his pants, squeezed him hard.
He stiffened, torn between glory and anguish. “If you’re trying to get revenge on men by using me, you’re going at it the right way.”
Her grip eased. Her expression was intent, captivated, as she explored him—the length, the breadth, his balls and his belly. Then she came back and gripped him again, and used her thumb to rub the head of his dick in smooth, slow motions.
By now, he could hardly speak, but he managed to ask, “Have you had much experience with this kind of thing?”
“No.”
“Because if you don’t stop that, I’m going to come in your hand.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Already?”
“There is no already. I’ve been trying to tell you—you’re the only woman I’ve ever really wanted.”
Jacqueline pulled her hand free.
Caleb should have been relieved that she had somehow regained her senses.
But she tugged at the black belt. “I may not have much hands-on experience. But that’s not my fault. Before I went out that night with Wyatt, I got myself on the pill, because I thought I was going to get lucky.” She put her face close to his. “I liked him because he looked like you.”
Caleb gazed into her amazing eyes, the color of pure amber, and realized he wasn’t the only one enthralled. “Do not compare me with that stinking little brat.”
“No, you’re not a brat. You’re mature and responsible. You never talk about your emotions. I have no idea what you think of me, if you have contempt for me for being so stupid as to get involved with a guy who wanted to sell me because of the mark on my hand.”
How could she be uncertain about his feelings for her? He felt as if he wore them on his sleeve. “You’re not stupid. You’re trusting and fresh and hopeful.” He smoothed her bangs off her forehead. “I’ve seen so much of the world, I haven’t been hopeful since I left Italy, yet when I’m with you . . . you make me young again.”
The anxiety in her eyes relaxed, and for the first time since he’d rescued her, she looked hopeful again. She looked like Jacqueline again.
Sitting up, she tugged at his belt again. “I’m still on the pill.”
Caleb opened his gi top in record time. “Then I guess we’re both going to get lucky.” Spreading his arms wide, he wordlessly invited her to explore his chest.
She put both her palms on his pecs and smoothed the contours, then worked her way down his ribs to his belly.
He’d been working hard. His blood still galloped in his veins. He was damp with sweat, yet when she leaned close and breathed him as if he were a perfume, he grabbed her arms.
No. You’ll scare her.
But it was too late. He flipped her beneath him.
She hit the mat.
He rolled on top of her, thrusting his knee between her legs.
They stared at each other, and he saw the same fire blazing in her that blazed in him. They kissed, openmouthed, tasting each other for the first time. He’d been waiting for this his whole adult life. There had been other women. Of course there had been. But always he’d stood apart, using them to learn his moves, to discover what pleasured them. In the secret depths of his mind, he’d imagined himself showing those moves to Jacqueline, overwhelming Jacqueline with his skill, bringing Jacqueline to orgasm—and all the while knowing his employer’s daughter was not for a peasant boy from Sicily.
Now . . . now he had Jacqueline in his hands, and he was too turned on to do anything but plunge his tongue repeatedly into her mouth. He taught her nothing except how desperately he wanted her.
That seemed exactly what she wanted to know. She reveled in the lesson, her tongue meeting every thrust, her body writhing against his. When she stroked his thigh with her bare foot, he caught her knee and pulled it around him, and slipped into the cradle between her legs. He moved against her, matching the rhythm of his tongue with the rhythm of his body.
She rose to meet each thrust, rubbing herself against him, and when she did, she made a humming noise into his mouth. She was like a bee, flying to him for honey, darting in and out while he barely held on. The clothes between them made no difference; they might as well have been naked . . . and that thought brought his lust-induced frenzy to another level.
She pushed him away, and yanked at the yellow belt around her waist.
He helped her with the knot, opened the heavy white cloth—and looked.
Her skin was flushed and dewy from the workout. Her belly was flat and strong; her shoulders were muscled. Her exercise bra irritated the hell out of him; it mashed her boobs flat and completely concealed the erotic lines he had only imagined. He wanted to see her, know her, explore every inch of her. Sliding his hand under her back, he groped for the snaps. And groped. And groped.
She laughed abruptly and painfully. “There are no hooks. I pull it on over my head.”
“Son of a bitch.” He had never sworn so earnestly.
She laughed again, this time with real amusement.
Tugging her up to face him, he started to drag at her sleeves.
In one swift, efficient movement, she shoved him away, removed the top, and removed the bra.
She had the best, most glorious breasts he’d ever seen—because they were hers. He cupped one lightly in the palm of his hand, savoring the sweet weight, the silky skin, the pale pink nipple. He used his thumb to circle the areola.
She caught her breath and pressed her hand over his. Took his other hand and put it on her other breast.
He squeezed lightly, watching her face as she reveled in the sensation. She was so responsive, glowing with the joy of discovery, and he wanted her. Now.
He lifted her off the floor and onto the weight bench. Kneeling before her, he found her nipple with his mouth. He sucked, lightly at first, outlining the small, sweet circle with his tongue, then with more strength, letting her feel his raw desire.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders. She writhed in his arms, moaning. She was a flame that burned and enticed him.
He spread his fingers wide on her back, enjoying the flex of her spine as he kissed her other breast.
And then . . . she bit his ear.
The tiny pain tipped him over the edge into madness. He found himself on his feet, looking down at her upturned face. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“No. But you said I was a good student.” Her lashes lowered over gleaming amber eyes.
When had she changed from hesitant girl to alluring temptress?
“If you knew how much I’ve restrained myself, how much I’ve suffered over you, you wouldn’t dare—”
Putting her hand on his thigh, she slid it around and up.
Her touch transformed him. He became a machine, smoothly catching her wrist, twisting her around and pushing her down to lie lengthwise, her spine resting on the bench. Hooking his fingers under her waistband, he pulled, taking the gi pants and the sports panties off in one effortless movement.
She tried to sit up, pull her legs together, regain her modesty even as he stole it away.
“No,” he whispered, pushed her back and followed her down. He pressed his chest against hers, and the sensation of skin against skin was torture—and glory. She was naked, and he wanted to do her.
Yet if he took her, he’d be a cad and worse.
Yet he wanted to do her.
It was an argument he couldn’t win.
So he kissed her. Kissed her hard and long, using his tongue as he wished to use his dick, with strength and speed and precision, seizing control with no intention of relinquishing it.
And she . . . she kissed him back.
It was like flinging rocket fuel on a forest fire. The resulting explosion broke his will.
Swiftly and with wicked intent, he kissed her neck, her breasts, her belly. He pulled her to the edge of the bench, put her legs on his shoulders, and kissed her pussy, tasting her and, when she came, drinking of her. Then as he rose above her, he shed his pants. “If you want me to stop, you have to tell me now.” His voice sounded deeper, more demon than human, strained with the effort of making the offer.
Her chest heaved from the power of her fading orgasms. “After that . . . you think . . . you can run away?” Reaching up, she took his hips. She pulled him down to her.
“Finish it,” she said.
Thank God.
He adjusted their bodies so that he sat on the bench with her legs on his thighs, so that she was stretched out before him like a feast, so that he held the globes of her bottom in his hands. Leaning over, he lifted her, tilted her hips and placed himself at the entrance to her body.