Bound Guardian Angel (9 page)

Once the last corner pulled free, Micah set
the entire rectangular sheet on the floor in one glorious
piece.

“How you doin’, big guy?” Micah gently
brushed his palm over the red skin on Trace’s back as he set the
knife down then grabbed the dry shower loofah from the table. “You
hanging in there?”

“Yes, Master.” Trace’s voice was barely a
whisper.

Micah grinned wickedly to himself. Who said
you had to get flogged bloody to have a deep submissive experience.
See what a good waxing at the hands of a patient master could
do?

Trace groaned and purred again as Micah
lightly brushed the loofah up and down his back and bottom, using
circular motions to clear away any remaining wax.

Once he was satisfied Trace was clean and
clear, he took a damp cloth, walked around to the other side of the
table, rolled Trace toward him so Trace’s back was propped against
his torso, and carefully wiped away his semen.

Trace’s cock was still hard, and as Micah
wiped the damp cloth down the shaft, Trace came again. Out of
nowhere, Trace’s body convulsed and a creamy stream shot out onto
the dark-blue sheet, followed by several smaller spurts. Trace
groaned through each one until his body calmed once more and he
took a heavy, cleansing breath.

“Look at you, champ.” Micah glanced up to
find Trace’s pale-green eyes watching him. “Twice and I barely even
had to try.”

Trace blinked heavily, and the corners of
his mouth curled weakly. “You da man.”

Only Trace could crack a joke at a time like
this.

Micah chuckled softly then shook his head.
“No, buddy. You are.” He stroked his palm over Trace’s hip. “Now,
come on. Let’s finish cleaning you up and get you to bed.” Trace
had to be tired after not only the scene, but everything else he’d
endured over the past two weeks.

Micah tucked his left arm around Trace’s
shoulders and his right arm under his knees. Then he lifted Trace
off the table. He could clean up the wax-covered sheets tomorrow.
Right now, he just wanted to take care of his friend.

* * *

Cordray glared through the rain-splattered windshield
at Micah’s house. Lightning streaked the sky as she shot the Range
Rover into his driveway. Before the engine completely shut off, she
was storming up the walkway toward the front door as thunder
rolled.

She pounded and rang the bell as the clouds
continued to empty their contents on her. When no one opened the
door within two seconds, she pounded her fist on it again then hit
the bell three more times.

“Micah, you son of a bitch!” she stepped
back and yelled. “Open this goddamn door!”

Racing over here, she’d had time to discard
the voice of reason that had told her taking Trace without her
there had been the right thing to do. Now, the fact that Micah had
broken protocol just pissed her off. Check that. It infuriated
her.

She lifted her fist and was about to go
Thor’s hammer on the heavy wooden door again when she heard a
system of locks disengage inside, and then the door swung open.

“Who the hell . . .?” A
striking blonde with boy-short hair and green eyes gathered a
peach, floral print robe around her neck as a gust of wind blew
across the lawn.

Cordray was briefly taken aback. Samantha
was lovelier and taller in person than she had been in Micah’s
thoughts during those times when Cordray poked around inside his
head.

“You must be Sam,” she said.

“Good guess. Who the hell are you?” Sam
glared at her.

Oh, Cordray liked this one. She was feisty.
“I’m Cordray. I’m sure you’ve heard my name once or twice.”

From the way Sam’s eyes narrowed and one
brow lifted defensively, it was obvious Micah and Trace had no
doubt blasphemed her name to hell and back, and she didn’t need to
go mind-probe to prove it.

“Do you mind?” Cordray lifted her hands to
her sides, catching the rain as she tilted her face skyward and
squinted. “Getting wet here.”

Sam stepped aside and waved her in, but
those green eyes never faltered and held Cordray with an air of
wary contempt. “Why are you here?” she said after shutting the door
and relocking it.

Cordray glanced around the entryway that led
into an impressive open floorplan. Dining room, kitchen, and living
room all shared one massive, elegantly appointed space, separated
only by changes in flooring and furniture. The windows were covered
by blinds, as well as cream and gold opaque curtains.

“Nice home.” Cordray took off her dripping
leather coat and held it out to Sam.

“Hang it up yourself.” Sam huffed with
exasperation and walked away from her into the kitchen, then
stopped and looked back at her. “Well? Are you coming? The mud
room’s back here.”

With a catty smile, Cordray followed her
into a wide room with an eight-foot rack dotted with heavy-duty
hooks on one wall. A low shelf held two pairs of boots and a pair
of gym shoes. Sam gestured impatiently toward one of the hooks,
spun on her bare foot, and walked out.

“I can see why Micah likes you,” she said
after hanging her coat and joining Sam in the kitchen.

Sam regarded her with a perturbed
expression. “Why’s that?”

Cordray plopped down on one of the
barstools. Water sloshed under her ass. Her hair and pants were
soaked, but if she could make a quick in and out with her bounty,
she could handle it. “Because you’ve got moxie.”

“Moxie?” Sam crossed her arms and leaned
against the opposite counter, next to the fridge.

Cordray nodded and spun herself around on
the rotating seat of the stool as if it were a merry-go-round.
“Uh-huh. Moxie. Woman balls.” She grabbed the edge of the counter
to stop spinning, her gaze trained on Sam.

“Something you seem to know a lot about.”
Sam sucked her teeth, flashed her green peepers with a bob of her
deceptively delicate eyebrows, and turned for the stove. “I’ll ask
again. Why are you here, Cordray?” She grabbed the teapot and
carried it to the sink.

“Micah didn’t tell you?”

“Should he have?” Sam switched on the faucet
and began filling the pot.

Cordray drummed her fingers on the granite
counter. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose the fact he took Trace
without my permission and could get arrested for that might have
slipped his mind.” She had no intention of turning Micah over to
her brother for what he’d done, but Sam didn’t need to know
that.

Sam slammed the metal teapot back on the
stove and spun around, hands on her hips so that her robe parted to
show off a patch of perfect, unblemished skin below her neck. “If
you’re here to arrest Micah, you’ll have to go through me. I won’t
let you touch him
or
Trace.” Sam wagged her finger at her.
“Trace needs Micah right now. He was in bad shape when Micah
brought him home, and—”

“Ooooooo, you
are
feisty, aren’t you?
I like that in a woman.” Cordray let her gaze rake Sam up and down
as she smiled and tilted her head suggestively to the side.

Cordray had been known to take females to
bed as much as males, and Sam was exactly her type. Tall, blonde,
and all spitfire. Might as well show Sam a little appreciation
while she was here.

Sam sucked in a quick breath, swayed
backward, and frowned as she secured her robe more tightly around
her.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Cordray said with a
coy grin. “I don’t bite.” She winked as her gaze took a little
vacay down Sam’s toned calves. “Although . . . for
you, I might make an exception.”

“Excuse me?”

She winked then spun herself around again as
she flashed a catty smile. “Just get Trace for me, and I’ll be out
of your way.”

“He’s unavailable.” Sam switched on the
burner.

The tension in the kitchen was thick enough
to bitch-slap.

“What do you mean, he’s unavailable?”

Scowling at her, Sam nabbed a cup and saucer
from the cabinet.

Just one cup. Either she wasn’t going to
have tea herself or she was about to be a bad hostess.

Sam set the cup and saucer on the counter.
“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because I said please.”

“No you didn’t.”

Cordray slid off the bar stool, strolled
around the counter, and drew near Micah’s lovely mate. “Please,”
she said seductively, slinking up beside her.

* * *

Sam pulled back.

What was Cordray’s story? The woman—female,
whatever—had a barrier of barbed wire around her so thick it cut
Sam’s thoughts just to think about trying to get through it. It was
as if Cordray wanted to keep the entire planet at arm’s length, if
you could consider the length of a football field arm’s length.

Sam was more than familiar with such
behavior. Hadn’t she done the same thing after what she’d endured
with Steve? He’d beaten her. He’d mentally and emotionally abused
her. After leaving him and fleeing as far away as she could, hadn’t
she erected a similar barrier around herself? Until she met Micah,
she’d left as small a footprint as possible, never allowing anyone
to get close, always keeping a layer of pushback between her and
everyone around her.

Cordray reminded Sam of herself. A lot.
Except Cordray seemed ten times worse. Not only did she push people
off with her flippant attitude and mouthy jabs, but even her black,
extreme attire and the tattoos that coated her neck and arms seemed
to scream “Keep away!”

And what was up with her face? She looked
like she’d recently been on the losing end of a fistfight with
Sasquatch. Scuffs marred her cheek, and she had a gash on her
swollen bottom lip that looked like it had been a profuse bleeder
not too long ago.

In every way, Cordray was a walking
billboard for the socially dysfunctional. And, the way Sam had done
after leaving Steve, she would bet Cordray was using her abrasive
behavior to protect herself from some pretty nasty demons.

Sam regarded her out of the corner of her
eye.

“Please?” Cordray said again, slinking
closer, no doubt in an effort to intimidate her.

Sam sighed and gestured to Cordray’s
drenched hair and wet pants. “You’re dripping water all over my
floor.” She shook her head and sidestepped in the direction of the
laundry room. “Let me get you a towel and a change of clothes. I
have a feeling you’re going to be here a while.”

Before she could turn away, she noticed
Cordray’s perfectly curved, black eyebrows twist into a subtle
frown as if she hadn’t expected Sam’s hospitality.

All the more evidence that Cordray was not
what she tried to portray herself as. She wasn’t used to kindness,
and it was becoming more and more obvious she had a lot of
skeletons in her closet. Skeletons that only a heaping serving of
unconditional love could exorcise.

In the laundry room, she found a folded pair
of pale-pink sweats, a white baby-doll tee with faded-red, Greek
lettering across the chest, and a towel. When she returned to the
kitchen, Cordray was still standing where she’d left her, looking a
little dumbfounded . . . and maybe a tad wary.

“Here.” Sam held the folded clothes toward
her. “You can change in the bathroom.” She pointed toward the hall.
“It’s the first door on the left.”

Cordray cautiously took the stack of
clothes, flipped through them, and then curled her upper lip.
“Pink? You want me to wear pink?”

Sam cleared her throat to prevent herself
from laughing, and then crossed her arms as she leaned her hip
against the counter. “It’s all I’ve got, honey. Take it or leave
it.”

“Honey?” Cordray arched one eyebrow. “You do
have moxie.”

Sam uncrossed her arms and held them out as
if presenting the obvious. “I live with Micah. Moxie comes with the
territory, babe.”

Cordray eyed her suspiciously. With a
resigned frown, she carried the dry clothes out of the kitchen
toward the hall bathroom. “This doesn’t make us friends,
Sammy.”

Grinning, Sam turned toward the cabinet and
grabbed a second teacup. “I didn’t think it did.”

“Just so that’s clear.”

“Crystal clear.”

“Okay then.”

“Fine.”

Cordray disappeared into the hall, and a
moment later, Sam heard the bathroom door click shut.

Micah would probably throw a fit, because he
had ranted ad nauseam about Cordray for over two weeks. How she was
a bitch. How she had been the one to put Trace in prison. How she
was so far up King Bain’s ass there was nothing Micah and Trace
could do to retaliate against her without fear of repercussions.
And sure, Sam had bought into his animosity. When she had opened
the door less than ten minutes ago to find a regal, beautiful
woman—female—with sapphire eyes, long, crazy braids, a swatch of
two-toned blue hair framing the left side of her face, and tattoos
from here to Sunday standing on her porch, she had known in an
instant who she was and had reacted defensively.

But now that she’d met Cordray, the phrase
there are always two sides to every story
came to mind. She
felt Micah—and even Trace—had gotten her all wrong. After all, they
were big, stupid men—males, whatever. They were warriors who
thought first with their fists, second with their penises, and only
when their first two thinking mechanisms were depleted did they
turn to their brains for help.

Sam’s gut told her Cordray was simply
misunderstood. Very misunderstood.

Not that Sam needed to be Cordray’s savior,
but being that Cordray reminded her so much of herself, her
heartstrings tugged a little for the woman—female.

She really needed to stop thinking in human
terminology. Vampires were male and female. Humans were men and
women. Maybe by the end of the decade she’d get with the lingo.

As she grabbed a box of herbal tea from the
cabinet, she pondered what kind of trauma could make a tough-assed
vampire like Cordray become so abrasive. Or maybe she’d donned the
tough-as-nails persona because of some traumatic emotional wound,
and she was really a sweetheart deep down.