Emma: The Wild and Wanton Edition (69 page)

His desperate plea unleashed her, and her body was flung up into the heavens. She cried out his name, her nails digging into his back, and she flew apart.

“I love you, my beautiful wife,” he groaned before kissing her deeply and thrusting into her once more. His entire body went rigid within her arms; his desperate moan was accompanied by a flood of warmth in her womb.

His weight became heavy as his arms gave out completely, and just when she became concerned that she could not breathe properly, he rolled to his side, pulling her with him. They lay facing each other in their marriage bed. She could still feel him inside of her body.

He trailed his fingertips softly down her cheek. “Was it terrible?” asked he in a worried tone. “I am so sorry, dearest, I got carried away.”

“Terrible?” she asked aghast. “George — that was
wonderful
.”

He sighed in relief.

“Can we do it again?”

He breathed a laugh of disbelief.

“Please?”

In answer, he rolled her beneath him. “Mrs. Knightley, it would be my pleasure.”

FINIS

Jane Austen is one of the most beloved authors of all time. She never married, and as far as we know, she died a virgin. More’s the pity.

Micah Persell is the award-winning author of the paranormal romance series
Operation: Middle of the Garden
. She holds a bachelor’s degree in English and a double master’s degree in English pedagogy and literature, and she found particular delight in driving her professors to madness by imagining the characters’ salacious untold stories during class discussions of “serious literature.” She is beyond thrilled that the object of her professors’ horror is now her profession (Cheers, dears!).

In her dreams, Dahlia was a free-range, castigating bitch. In real life?

Dahlia was an imprisoned, castigating bitch.

She sat with her back against the headboard. She rested her wrists on her bent knees and examined her nails with a critical eye. Beyond her nails, Dahlia caught a glimpse of her cell wall, and her relaxed lips quickly morphed into a grimace.

Three months she’d been a prisoner in this damn facility. Three months of being poked and prodded daily. And for what? A failed experiment that proved to turn her into some cosmic judge of character. Which was a freaking laugh riot, considering she was completely devoid of character herself.

But she wasn’t in federal prison, and she had to remind herself often that all of this — testing both fruits; having to touch people over and over to determine if they were
good
or
evil
, an ability they’d termed the “Knowledge”; having to listen to their incessant talk of how the Knowledge would change espionage; being stuck in this terrible room — was worth it. They were lax on security here at the facility, and Dahlia never knew what life was going to throw at her, or when she was going to need to bail.

But — hand to God — she was going to kill someone if they forced her to touch and fruit-test one more do-good freak.

She heard a clatter at her cell door. Her head snapped up, and she watched through narrowed eyes as the door swung open and a man she hadn’t seen before entered her cell.

Dahlia threw her head back and groaned to the ceiling. “God damn it. A new one?” She lowered her head and pinned him with a leer that had him squirming where he stood. “Is this really necessary, or are you just here so I’ll touch you?”

Eli Johnson, bane of her existence and co-director of Operation: Middle of the Garden, entered the room behind the man who now looked like he faced a firing squad instead of one curvy Latina in a cell. “Knock it off, Dahlia,” Eli said with a growl as he walked around his cohort. “He’s not here for tests. He’s here for — ” He broke off to plow his fingers through his hair, and Dahlia silently congratulated herself for managing to stress him out with minimal effort. He was usually more unflappable than this. Today was looking up.

Eli took a deep breath, and then, “How are you finding your accommodations?”

For the first time in a long time, Dahlia grew wary. “Um … why?” she asked.

Eli shrugged. “We’ve been re-evaluating the conditions of your imprisonment. It’s been suggested that you may enjoy visitation. Perhaps from friends. Or family.”

Black ice filled her veins. “I don’t have family.”

They both looked at her for way longer than was comfortable, but Dahlia schooled her features into a mask. They could look all damn day. The answer wouldn’t change. Not for them. Not for anyone.

“Okay,” Eli said. “Just thought I’d ask.” He then held his hand out, and the other man slapped an envelope into the open palm and then made a notation on the clipboard he carried. Eli strode forward and stopped right beside her bed. Dahlia realized she was holding her breath. “We had your mail forwarded here,” he said.

Dahlia straightened.

“This came for you today.” Eli dropped the envelope onto Dahlia’s bed.

With measured slowness, Dahlia picked up the envelope, saw there was no return address, and turned it over. She cursed. “It’s been opened,” she accused. Rage flooded her.

Eli shrugged. “You’re a prisoner.”

As Dahlia saw red, Eli and the stranger left the cell. When the door clicked behind them, Dahlia tore the letter from the envelope. One flick of her wrist, and it was open. The world tilted violently.

Ha pasado.

It’s happened. The Spanish words blurred before her eyes as the letter fell to the floor. Blood drained from her face. She tried to pull air into her lungs, but her body wasn’t cooperating.

Not this. Anything but this. Everything she’d done, all the people she’d hurt. Killed. She’d done everything to avoid this exact letter.

At the edge of hysteria, Dahlia managed to pull herself back. In the back of her mind, she’d always known this day would come. She would handle it. She would —

Her eyes flew to the door.

This was the reason she was here. Here and not in federal prison. Her eyes evaluated the riveted steel that separated her from the “good” folks. She strode to the door and kicked it with all her might. At the sight of her boot’s imprint in the titanium steel, a grim smile spread her cheeks.

She drew back for another kick.

• • •

In his dreams, his Emily was alive. In real life?

Jericho was alone. Tormented by her memory.

The worst part was when he woke up, and for a few blissful moments, he didn’t remember she was dead. He would roll over and reach for her, ready to pull her warm body into his own, and his hand would grasp air.

Just like it was doing right now.

The weight of his loss settled in on his heart, and Jericho squeezed his eyes shut tighter, prolonging the visual confirmation of Emily’s absence a few moments longer. But the delay only caused horrific scenes to flicker against the black of his closed eyelids. The longing to sift his fingers through Emily’s shoulder-length brown hair, to gaze into her large, expressive honey-colored eyes shifted as images of her sweat-soaked hair, screams of terror, and vacant eyes crowded happy memories to the back of his mind.

Jericho shook. The fruit forced his remembrances to maintain their perfect sensory detail. He could never forget her; his memories would never begin to fade.

And after eight years, he was ashamed to admit he wanted them to. He’d loved Emily with every fiber of his soul. He’d lived for her. He still lived for her, even though he’d been with Emily for only a handful of days.

He spent his time in equal parts grief, equal parts resentment that he couldn’t shake the hold his mate had over him after the unfairly short amount of time they’d had together. If anyone had told him he’d spend eight years grieving his mate of only five days, he might have run screaming at his first sight of her.

Might have. Oh, who was he kidding. Nothing could have kept him from Emily. Nothing but death. A death he’d caused.

He’d give anything to set that guilt aside.

A resounding boom ricocheted through Jericho’s room, pulling him from his thoughts. The picture frames on the wall shuddered and clacked. Jericho frowned and pulled himself to a sitting position, wondering if the noise had been dream or reality.

The boom sounded again, followed by a crash. Jericho’s sleepy confusion evaporated. Something was happening. Apprehension settled into his gut.

Jericho walked to the door. Shouts bounced in the hallway, and for the first time since entering this room months ago, Jericho placed his hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath and steeled himself to leave the solace of his room. He turned his wrist. The knob didn’t budge.

Jericho frowned. His door was never locked. Granted, he hadn’t tried it in all this time, but he had always known he was free to come and go as he pleased. He just didn’t please.

The back of his neck tingled, and Jericho froze. The metal of the doorknob seemed to burn his hand. He brought his eyes up to the window of his door, and what he saw stole the breath from his lungs.

Eyes as dark as espresso. Smooth, luminous brown skin. Cascades of wavy, rich black hair. As he felt his own eyes widen in shock, hers did as well.

The One. She’s yours.

The words stopped his heart. They were the same words he’d heard a mysterious Voice whisper eight years ago when he’d first laid eyes on Emily.

His body moved on its own to press against the door. The tips of his fingers skimmed over the cool metal on their way to the window, and his hand splayed on the glass.

Those beautiful eyes zeroed in on his hand, and her lips parted. Her brows drew together as she watched her own hand rise to meet his on the other side of the glass. His hand dwarfed hers — he couldn’t even see it past his own fingers and wide palm — but he swore he could feel the heat of her skin through the barrier.

No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. He’d found — and lost — his mate. He didn’t get another.

God, did he?

The weight of gloom lifted from his shoulders. Hope bubbled up through his chest, and he felt an unfamiliar pull at his cheeks. A quick check of his reflection in the glass showed he was smiling.

His heart started beating again in double time. He moved to try the doorknob once more, but before he could, he felt it turning against his palm and realized that he hadn’t been able to open the door because she had been holding the knob in her grip. And now, she was coming in to him. His grin grew broader, and he refocused on her gorgeous features.

She stopped twisting the knob. Her dazed eyes grew sharp, and she jerked her palm from the window where it rested against his.

Jericho’s grin slid from his face.

She bared her teeth at him and with a vicious twist of her shoulders, the door screeched. She stepped back and held the mangled doorknob before her.

Jericho looked down to where his hand rested on his side of the knob and gave it a twist. It didn’t budge. His eyes flew back to the window, and he couldn’t prevent them from raking over her form. She was perfection. Tall. Curvaceous. Seductive. The hand he pressed against the window curled into a fist.

She sneered at him, dropping the knob from the tips of her fingers. He could hear the clunk as it hit the floor.

And then, with one final look of disgust, she turned her back on him and ran away.

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.

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Sense and Sensibility: The Wild and Wanton Edition
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