Bubbles and Troubles (13 page)

She stood, water streaming down her body, and ruffled her dripping locks. Stepping onto a mat, Carmen raised a towel to her face to blot it dry. Her skin thrummed with sensitivity and heightened energy from her soak.

She felt a soft tickle at her calf and caught her breath. Surely just the cat’s tongue, but weren’t cats’ tongues scratchy and rough? She held the towel over her eyes and waited, heart pounding.

The silky touch flickered at her ankle like the most delicate of kisses, then traced up the damp skin on the side of her knee. Carmen felt two small, velvety pads of pressure beneath her knee. Were they a cat’s front paws, or a man’s fingers?

She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed. “Kitty, are you thirsty?” she asked. She felt a sharp nip above her knee and cried out in surprise. “Kitty!” she scolded. “No need for that, I’ll take care of you.”

Carmen felt the two points of contact move around her knee to the inside of her leg before tracing their way up her inner thigh. Clearly, this was no cat.

Carmen dropped the towel to the floor and lowered her hands to the tousled head between her legs. “I am thirsty, now that you mention it,” a familiar male voice growled, “but I think I’ve found just what I want to drink.”

He eased her down onto the curved side of the tub and spread her knees wide. Carmen twisted her fingers through his ash-grey hair and sighed happily. He sucked the water from her plump pussy lips and brushed his stubbled cheeks over the heat-softened skin between her legs. “I can look like anything, you know,” he whispered, “a fluffy grey cat, a racoon, an elderly geologist, a sleek tabby cat—but it’s always me, Carmen. You know that.” He pushed the tip of his tongue inside her cunt and held it, tasting her as slow seconds ticked by.

“Yes, I do know that,” Carmen murmured. “I suppose I—ah!” she cried out. Brock wound his arms beneath her thighs and pushed his tongue far into her pussy. She exhaled through pursed lips and arched her back. “I suppose I lost track of that for a moment, or maybe I was trying not to get my hopes up.”

Brock pulled his tongue out and flicked it over the damp, swollen nub of her clit, then slid one slender finger inside her. Carmen felt dizzy with impatience and desperate for a deep fucking, but willed herself to focus on the pleasure of the moment. “You were so beautiful tonight, Carmen,” he murmured.

She whimpered softly and imagined how his cock was growing thicker and harder by the second. “It’s going to feel so good when you push it in,” she whispered.

“Yes, it will, Carmen,” he agreed, and added a second finger.

Carmen raised her hands to her bare breasts and found her nipples. “It’s been a long time,” she noted, and rolled each stiff nipple between her fingertips. “I thought you weren’t going to come around.”

“You told me I was a self-centred child,” Brock answered. He withdrew his hand, lifted her from the edge of the tub down onto the fluffy bath mat, then lowered his hips between her thighs. “You said I needed to grow up.”

“Oh,” Carmen breathed. The silky-hard tip of his erection nudged against her opening.

“You were right,” he continued. Carmen felt faint as his shaft eased its way within. She closed her eyes, blind to all sensation except the beautifully brutal way his cock stretched her entrance.

“I know I’ve had an unconventional life, Carmen,” he said, penetrating farther. “I know I’ve got a lot to learn.”

Carmen nodded, too overwhelmed by sensation to speak.

“I’m trying, though,” he added. “I’ve been learning about the gnomes and the elves, spending time with them. I’ve learnt about the trolls and tree-spirits, too. Turns out trolls aren’t so stupid after all.”

“That’s good, Brock,” Carmen forced out. She widened her thighs to take him deeper.

“And we—Paloma, Lowell and even Korbin—have been being more assertive with Father. He understands that we’re adults now. It’s different than it was at Castle Speranza.” Brock lowered his face to Carmen’s breast and sucked one erect nipple into his mouth.

“I know that you are an independent woman, Carmen, and that’s why I’ve given you your space.” Brock’s hips began to pump faster into Carmen’s. He lifted her knees up to her ribs and slammed his cock deeply into her. Carmen cried out in mingled pain and relief.

She ran her fingernails down his corded back and scraped hard. Brock growled and fucked harder, pummelling her into the tile floor. Carmen’s orgasm began at that sweet point where the tip of his erection touched her inner walls and exploded from there. She gave a guttural cry, and wrapped her ankles around his back. As the spasms from her climax began to wane, the thick surge of Brock’s cum inside her brought them back to full strength.

Long moments later, he lay panting on her chest, his face buried between her bare tits. “Glorious,” he breathed.

“Amazing,” Carmen agreed.

As his heartbeat returned to normal, Brock eased back on his heels and gazed at Carmen, stretched nude on the floor before him. “You’re everything to me, Carmen,” he told her. “You’re vital and smart and beautiful and independent. I’d never take any of that away.”

Carmen smiled, adoring every inch of him—the rich gem-blue of his eyes, the wild grey fluff of his hair and the sculpted caramel gorgeousness of his body.

“What I’d like you to know is that I’m having the gnomes and elves construct a cottage for me between yours and Castle Speranza. I’ve put in a request for my own bath of Healing Waters and my own conduit to the Living Earth. I don’t want to take away your independence, Carmen, but I do want to love you. I want to visit you, and for you to visit me. I want to explore the woods and the town with you, and experience whatever parts of your long life you’re willing to share with me. I don’t want all of you, Carmen.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Just those parts of you that can love me as much as I love you.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled. “But only if that’s what you choose, Carmen.”

Carmen pulled her hand away and sat up. She took his playful, lovable face between her hands. “Yes, Brock, I want you to have the parts of me that love you, although I warn you, those parts will only grow and get stronger. I want you to be part of my days and nights. I want us to learn and grow together in these unconventional, amazing lives we have in Prescott Woods. I want to love you.” She pulled him close to her for a kiss of promise and hope.

“Brock, I choose it.”

Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

A Ghost on Two Wheels

Bebe Balocca

Excerpt

Chapter One

“Barney!” I lean out of the back door and holler up into the meadow. “Barney, damn it, come on in!” As I have for the past several days, I hope to see him dart out from our rickety barn, his namesake and his favourite haunt, and plummet down the gentle slope to our back door like a ginger lightning bolt. Barney enjoys nothing more than lurking in that dusty old barn, chasing field mice and sparrows and lizards, then resting after his hunts in my lap.

We inherited Barney when we bought this old farmhouse ten years ago. After we moved in, we told Mack Grayden, the owner, that we’d found a cat in the barn.

Mack had shrugged and spat on the ground. “Just an old barn cat,” the crusty old man had grunted. “And I got no use for him where I’m going. Keep him or call animal control to pick him up, don’t matter none to me. Reckon you might want a good mouser, though. Keep mice from gettin’ into the place.”

We decided to give the unnamed mouser a trial period. I set out dry cat food in a dish, and the cat acted like it was wild salmon on a bed of caviar. Apparently Mack had never fed the cat at all and had just left him to fend for himself with mice and lizards and whatever else he could catch. The poor, scrawny thing was just skin and bones. We fattened him up, got him checked out at the vet, and invited him into the house. Our hand-me-down cat proved to be a well-adjusted and contented pet, as well as a very, very good eater. He’d rolled with the punches delivered by his neglectful previous owner Mack, and was more than ready for the next phase of his life. Now Barney, as we named the orange barn cat, is part of our family, a huge, tough tomcat who sleeps at the foot of our bed and curls next to me while I write, as loyal as any dog.

I wait and I hope, but there’s no lightning bolt this morning.

Michael comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I’m afraid he’s gone, babe,” he says quietly, and plants a kiss on my neck. “He’s been missing for six days now.”

Fear stings the back of my throat and I swallow painfully. I just can’t bring myself to believe it. “He’s been gone for a week before and come back, hungry and filthy and covered in burrs. He’s probably just out hunting,” I insist. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout once more into the air. “
Barney!
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Michael leaves me to my yelling and walks to the coffee pot.

I shut the back door with a sigh. “You think he’s really gone for good?” I ask quietly.

Michael pours two cups of coffee and sloshes some cream in the mug intended for me. He hands it to me and answers carefully. “Barney’s an old cat, Ivy,” he says quietly. “And he was starting to move pretty slowly. He’s had a good, long life, but he may have gone off to die if he felt the time was near. Outdoor cats do that sometimes, you know.” He sees me bite my lip and quickly adds, “But I could be wrong. He could show up any minute, begging for some Fancy Feast and a nap in your lap. What do I know, right?” He smiles at me over his coffee cup, blue eyes glinting warmly.

Two months into his biannual buzz-cut has given a nicely tousled look to his wavy black hair. I love how he can’t be bothered with frequent haircuts, yet manages to look devastatingly hot with his hair at every length from shaved to shaggy. I think that now is my favourite hair length on him, though—long enough to run my fingers through his short waves, and still short enough to stand up on its ends.

“Wanna go for a ride this afternoon?” Michael asks. “I’ve got an appointment this morning, but we could get a nice little putt in after lunch. It’s going to be gorgeous today. I’ve got the Chief waxed and ready to ride.” He clears his throat before continuing. “I thought today would be a good day to get started on our new tats. Joe and Chloe have time for both of us at two o’clock.”

He says this casually, but I know it’s as meaningful to him as it is to me. For our tenth anniversary of being together, we’re getting each other’s names tattooed over our hearts. Michael and I aren’t married, but we have a bond that goes deeper than any ’till death do us part’ vow spoken in a church. I’ve given myself to him, forever and ever, no matter what, and he’s given himself to me. We have grown together like two trees planted side by side. Our branches are locked and tangled as they grow up to the sun, and, far beneath the surface, our roots are fused together. We’ll never be separated.

These tattoos were my idea. Although Michael is a tattoo artist, and has his share of ink on his gorgeously muscled body, I’m a tattoo virgin. It’s not that I don’t appreciate body art—I’m crazy about Michael’s tats. I love to trace my fingers over the intricate Celtic knot on his biceps and the crescent moon on his wrist. The stark tribal tat stretching across his shoulders is my favourite. It gorgeously accents the beefy width of his back when he’s shirtless. The reason I’ve yet to go under the tattoo gun myself, though, is that for most of my life I’ve been unable to settle on any particular image. I just didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to mark myself with it for the rest of my life. Also, I’ll confess that I’m a big chicken when it comes to pain. Tattoos look like they hurt.

A few years ago, though, when I knew beyond a doubt that Michael was my forever mate, I started dreaming of getting his name over my left breast. I want it right over my heart, so I can hold my palm on it and feel my own heartbeat through his name. I figure I’ll just deal with the pain when it comes, although the thought of a tattoo needle plunging into my skin makes my stomach clench into knots and flop around like a spastic fish.

After I convinced him that I wouldn’t regret it—and how could I ever regret having my true lover’s name printed on my skin?—we talked about how our tats would look and drew up sketches for Joe and Chloe to use. Michael loves the idea of getting my name over his heart, too. He wants to have my name surrounded by tendrils of ivy. Easy enough, right? ‘Ivy’ encased in ivy. I’m getting Michael’s name in a heart drawn from gears and pipes and chains, an homage to Michael’s Indian Chief motorcycle and his love of all things mechanical. Plus, it looks cool.

“So how about that ride?” He plops down into a kitchen chair and asks again, “Do you have much work to do? Can you fit in a putt and then an appointment at Tattoo Maxx? I’ve been looking forward to getting inked with you, Ivy, for a long time, and I think today’s the perfect day for it.”

My heart lurches in my chest as though it, too, were both scared and eager to feel the bite of the tattoo gun. “I’ve just got a few hours of work,” I answer. “I need to polish up that article for the
Gazette
, and then I can take off for the rest of the day. Is that college kid coming back to get colour added to his sleeve?”

Michael nods and sips his black coffee. “Yeah, I’m going to start colouring in Brent’s tiger today, but a sleeve like he’s getting is going to take another visit or two after this one before I finish up.” He glances at the wall clock and rises. “Kid’s gonna be here in ten minutes,” he says. “So I’m going to head out to the shop.”

I stand to meet him, the top of my head not even reaching his collarbone. I run my hands down his solid frame, all six feet and three inches of it, and think for the bazillionth time how much I adore every little thing about this man.