Target: BillionBear: BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance (12 page)

His breath hitched, then hissed as she leaned up on her toes, and bit his shoulder as she peeled his shirt down his arms. Then she placed her hands on his chest, stroking his tautened nipples as she pushed.

He stepped back, and back again, until he ducked through the door into her small bedroom, which was painted like a forest grove, with the sun peeping through the leaves on one side, and the stars on the opposite side.

Kesley glanced to both sides as she guided him toward the bed, and smothered a laugh when she spotted the pile of condoms on her bedside table.
Subtle, Kenz
, she thought, her eyes misty with laughter.

Jameson glanced down. “Your usual bedside equipment?”

“That,” she said, “ is my sister’s delicate hint.”

“You haven’t told her we’ve already been there?”

“McKenzi believes in quantity as well as quality.”

Jameson laughed, a husky sound low in his chest. It made Kesley weak in the knees as he mumbled into the hollow of her throat, “How does she know I’m not a mass murderer?” He slid both hands beneath her shirt, and his hands cupped warmly over her breasts.

Heat kindled deep inside her. “You’ll have to ask her,” Kesley breathed, her voice uneven as his questing thumbs circled her nipples.

“I’m too busy,” he whispered, and bent his head. His warm lips brushed softly over the tops of her breasts as her shirt and bra dropped away. She fell onto her fluffy duvet, and he pressed up between her parted knees and smiled down at her.

She had always kept herself dressed until the lights were off, but with him, she felt free—daring—delighting in getting skin to skin as quickly as she could. With the ruddy afternoon light shafting in low through her west-facing windows, he swept his admiring gaze over her breasts and belly. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his sincerity resonating through her, causing the inner fire to leap even higher.

She stretched out, aching for his touch. He lavished slow caresses from her collarbones over her shoulders and down her ribs to her stomach, then up again to cup her breasts.

Her fingers fisted in her bedspread as he began to caress them, running his thumbs over her nipples, then lightly flicking them. “Mmmmm,” he hummed, then bent to close his lips over one. A brush of teeth—her back arched—and he sucked hard, his tongue laving.

The heat began to build as he switched to the other nipple. Little noises escaped her as his caressing hand smoothed down over her belly to the edge of her pants.

While he switched between her breasts, rousing her to aching urgency, she kicked free of her pants. His stroking fingers smoothed down to her trembling thighs as his thumbs worked gently into her folds. Frantic with yearning, she widened her knees. His hand cupped her moist, warm wetness before he slid a finger easily in, out, and in, his thumb working around her clit in gentle circles.

And she lit up like a rocket. He kept his finger there as she shuddered, and relaxed.

“Your turn,” she said, starting to sit up.

“Not yet.” He smiled and shook his head, though she could see the magnificent bulge straining at the zipper of his pants. “I want to take my time this round.”

Jameson knelt down, pushed her knees as wide as they would go, and pressed a deep kiss to her most tender and secret folds. The fires flamed up to such intensity she began to pant—and he plunged his tongue into her, then with exquisite, torturous slowness licked, sucked, and nibbled her folds, before breathing gently, softly on her clit. She went wild, grabbing the back of his head. He laughed and opened his lips to take possession of her most sensitive spot.

One hard suck and she cried out, the world going white. He kissed her softly as she throbbed in rings of sweet fire, drifting slowly down until she was left breathless and boneless.

Sex had never been this amazing. Faster than she believed possible she found the energy to sit up. “I want you in me,” she said. “But first it’s my turn to play.”

In a minute he lay naked on the bed, his length taking up most of the real estate. She knelt with her knees at either side of his hips, no longer self-conscious about her hips, belly, thighs—his hands made her feel as if she were made of honey and light.

First she did what she had wanted to do ever since she first saw them: she explored with her lips each of the pink ribboned scars on his chest, up over his shoulder, and on the side of his face. She loved the way his breathing harshened, and his eyelids fluttered. Then she began to run her nails lightly over the bones of his face and down and over his throat to his neck, scratching lightly in circles. With tenderness and care she outlined all the entrancing contours of muscle and bone.

“Oh, God,” he breathed huskily. “That’s like . . .”

She leaned down and bit his lower lip to silence him, then began to work over the muscles of his chest. “It’s called effleurage,” she murmured. “But I used my nails.”

She eyed his cock, which had hardened all for her. She sensed the heat rising in him; she stroked and scored his muscles, working her way down his taut stomach. His breathing hitched and caught, and when her hands closed on his cock at last, he groaned, his teeth gritted.

She traced her nails up its length to the head, then bent to kiss the tip, and lick the gleaming drop of pre-cum before closing her mouth around the head for the gentlest of bites. She began to suck as one hand cupped his balls. Suck—squeeze—and his hips bucked.

“Kesley . . . That is
incredible
, but . . .” His breath hissed out. “In you. I need to be skin to skin.”

He surged up and flipped her over, and with one stroke, he buried himself in her. She locked her legs around him and they danced together, a perfect fit, the healing rhythm banishing pain and uncertainty. They rode the wave to the pinnacle of noon-bright heat.

One lingering thrust from Jameson, a wordless growl of passion, and every nerve in her body flashing in a shower of falling stars.

“Don’t ever leave me,” he whispered. “Whoever I am.”

“That’s a promise,” she whispered back.

And she knew that two days or two months or two years didn’t matter. Whatever uncertainties lay ahead for him, they would face them together.

* * *

Much later, they sat across from each other at the small table where Kesley had been eating alone for so long, their hair still damp, smelling of her tea tree oil shampoo, she in her robe, and he wearing just a towel. He insisted he never felt cold, and she was not going to argue if it meant getting to admire his magnificent chest and abs some more. He had a number of scars tracing over his shoulder, his ribs, and down his back, but they had healed to white lines, as if it had been six months and not just weeks since his accident.

Shifter healing.

“If your sister cooked this, she’s pretty amazing,” Jameson observed, surveying the delicious-smelling seafood casserole that was a specialty of the Lopezes, the Hochstetters’ prize-winning baked cabbage, and the signature dessert made by the Crockery’s owner herself, though she was officially retired from cooking: bread pudding with warm custard topped with cinnamon sauce.

The food had been waiting in casserole dishes in Kesley’s oven, evidence of conspiracy. She wished she could tell Jameson what Aunt Julia had said about him being a shifter, but a promise was a promise. Even if there had been no nosy Marlo around, she had to let him make the discovery himself.

So they ate the delicious dinner, and she guided the conversation over easy topics: food, ones they loved and ones they hated, which led to food anecdotes of childhood—something he could share, though not always with ease. She never prompted him when he’d stop, gaze distracted, as he tried to recollect a face, or a name, or a place. It was odd, she thought, how memory could be tied backward and forward.

After the leisurely meal, Kesley ground up coffee from hers and McKenzi’s precious stash of real Kona, a gift from one of Kenz’s many ex-boyfriends (before he became an ex), and then they sat down in the small living room side by side—but before they’d finished their coffee, they looked at each other and stampeded back to the bedroom.

The first time, he took her from behind. That was fun, but even more fun followed when she rode him on top, taking control, at first slow then frantic with abandon, their wordless communication perfect.

And after that, he fell into a deep sleep, as the fog closed in around the house. His breath was slow and even, his face relaxed, smiling, even. He looked . . . young. Peaceful. Happy.

Moving very slowly, she lit a single candle, then pulled out her best paper and began to sketch him, lingering over every golden-lit contour and angle. There were still so many questions, but she forced them outward beyond the shadows. They could wait. Now he was at peace, and Kesley would watch over him in her own nest, guarding his rest.

Chapter Ten

He slept through the night, with no nightmares.

In fact, he slept so deeply that he woke to an unfamiliar room, the golden morning light revealing a painted forest on the four walls around him. Something stirred in him—that voice again—
Home
.

He turned his head, and there was Kesley, her beautiful hair soft and clean as it swung over her shoulders, her smile dear, and a little questioning, as she held out a steaming mug. “I made fresh coffee,” she said. “Um, I noticed you put honey in your coffee. Is that because you don’t like white sugar?”

“Sugar’s fine. But I prefer the taste of honey—got used to it . . .” He almost had it, a flicker of an image.

He sighed. He could feel it all there, somewhere just under the surface of his conscious thoughts. Sometimes he half-wished someone would take a crowbar to his skull and pry the elusive knowledge out. It might lessen the pangs when he reached too hard.

He shook his head and gave up.

“Never mind,” she said. “As it happens, Mom’s cousin is a beekeeper. She sells fancy honeys in Overton, so we all have fresh honey. I brought you a choice—clover and orange blossom. I also happen to like sage, though not everyone does.”

“I like it all,” he said.

“Would you like me to make breakfast? I have to admit I’m not much of a cook.” She looked rueful. “French toast and oatmeal is about my limit.”

“We can always go back to Ralph’s.” He grinned suddenly. “My first walk of shame!”

“I can make it a drive of shame,” Kesley offered, grinning back.

“How about this. We drop by the hotel so I can grab some clean clothes, then I’ll confront Marlo. After that, breakfast. Then I was thinking I ought to visit the sheriff, to find out if he’s discovered anything from his prisoners. Maybe he’ll let me talk to them. Then I can take the  . . . issue to them.”

Kesley’s lips thinned, her eyes huge. “You were going to say battle. Take the battle to them.”

“Only an expression,” he said. “They started this. I intend to finish it, before anyone gets hurt.”

“That includes you,” she said.

“And that’s why I want to go to the sheriff after I’ve had my talk with Marlo.”

“I’ll take you to the barn. Uh, the sheriff’s office and the jail is at a barn. Sheriff Odom took over from his dad, who always made prisoners work off their offenses—if they aren’t shoveling out from behind the cows, they might be out cleaning clogged sewer lines.”

“Better use of their time than cruising around hassling strangers,” Jameson said.

By then they had finished their coffee. Kesley said as she peered out the window, “Good. My sister left us the car.”

They climbed into the old Volkswagen rattletrap that the sisters seemed to share. Jameson sat back to enjoy Kesley’s deft hands on the gear shift and the wheel. He wished she wouldn’t hide her lush, beautiful body in those baggy long tops and flapping pants, but he refused to be the kind of jerk who complains about what his lover wears.

Lover
.

A fine word, but not the right one. It was too flimsy for the feelings unfurling inside Jameson.
Mate.
That’s what that woman had said. Odd. People didn’t use that kind of language these days, and yet it felt so right.

He was thinking contentedly about how soon he could get Kesley naked again when they pulled up at the Primrose. Kesley’s smile vanished when they saw the huge lobby window smashed, jagged fangs of glass sticking out around the frame. Townspeople were converging from all directions.

The woman Kesley called “Aunt Julia” came dashing out, pale and wide-eyed. All lazy thoughts of intimate afternoons vanished. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Cannon—one of those horrible Nazi wingnuts raced up here not five minutes ago. Wearing a ski mask, no plates on his bike. He threw
this
through the window and raced away. It was tied to a brick.”

Jameson and Kesley got out of the car, and entered the lobby, crunching over a million shards of glass. In the middle of the mess sat the brick.

Julia Bashir handed over an envelope. No name or address was written on it. Jameson opened the envelope and took out the paper. In block print it said:

IF YOU WANT THEM ALIVE, YOU BETTER SHOW UP ALONE

“Them?” Jameson glanced up at the circle of distraught faces, deciding that now was not the time to explain his real name, or why he’d come with . . .  He realized Marlo wasn’t there. “Where’s Marlo?”

“She never checked back in last night,” Julia said, wringing her hands.

“And Lenny hasn’t come back,” an old man wearing a machinist’s leather apron spoke up. “I caught her nosing around behind my shop yesterday. When I confronted her, she said she was looking for someone to show her the way to Dottie’s. Offered fifty bucks. My grandson Lenny volunteered. And I let him, figuring it would get her out of our hair.” He scowled, clearly worried.

“What’s Dottie’s?” Jameson asked.

Kesley said, “It’s a run-down old motel off Highway 1.”

“That’s right, she said she was going to interview people at some motel. So, where’s the sheriff? Has anyone called him?”

“Yes.” Chick spoke from the window, his voice cracking. “Phone’s busy.”

“He might be on his way over, then.” Jameson’s mind worked rapidly. Somewhere, sometime, he had faced similar situations. By instinct he assembled a set of questions. “Until the sheriff gets here, shall we put together some ideas?”

“Yes!” Everyone seemed to like that idea, and faced him intently.

“Can you draw me a diagram of Dottie’s?” he asked Kesley. “I need to know dimensions, windows—if you can—where the obstacles are. If they are setting up a trap, there will be at least one perimeter of guards.”

She shook her head. “I’ve only passed by there once or twice. And anyway, you
aren’t
going alone.” Her voice rose at the end. “The sheriff will think of something. That’s what he does.”

Sheriff Odom had seemed like a good guy, but Jameson was very sure this sleepy town had ever been in a situation like this. “The target has always been me.” He pointed the note. No one argued. “So unless the sheriff shows up and offers another idea, I figure I need to take care of it. And fast. I’m not going to risk two innocent lives—”

“I’ll help.” Chick was there, his voice cracking again. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do anything. Lenny’s my kid brother’s best friend. No way am I sitting around while something happens to him.”

“Yeah,” David Zhao spoke up from the other side of the lobby.

And the rest of those now crowding up spoke in agreement, or question.

“How can we rescue them?”

“Lenny! Who would threaten a thirteen-year-old kid?”

“Bob Taggart
has
to be in on it.”

“All I know is, I’m not standing by and letting some damn skinheads off Lenny!”

“Yeah, count me in.”

“Do you think we could . . .” Sidled looks and hand gestures flashed between people. Jameson saw that, and wondered what he was missing, but then the man in the leather apron said, “Young Abe told us you were in the military.”

“I think so,” Jameson said. “But I don’t remember. I was in an accident.”

“Yeah, he said that, too. But . . . you know what to do here?”

Jameson studied the anxious faces around him—all ages, both sexes. “ How many of you have experience in the military, or defense?”

He regarded the silent row of faces. Each anxious to take action on behalf of the missing boy, at the very least. Jameson suspected the only one who had a rudiment of training was the sheriff, and maybe his deputy, but those two, from the sound of things, didn’t have a lot of experience with this kind of situation.

“There’s Ralph, up at the eatery. Did his stint twenty years ago.”

“And my grandpa was a gunnery sergeant in the Vietnam war,” someone else said from the back. “I could go get him.”

Jameson repressed a sigh. “Okay, next question. How about the next town, what is it, Overton? Do they have the manpower and equipment for this situation?”

Another flurry of quick looks, then Leather Apron said, “They might. But their police captain is one of those ‘damn the torpedoes’ men—he’s likely to send in heavy hitters, and consider two dead hostages acceptable collateral damage, as they say in the news.”

Jameson considered that as he assessed the semi-circle of people facing him. Clearly no one wanted to call the hot shot in Overton. “Okay, so what you are saying is, you’re with me on resolving this?”

“Ourselves,” Julia Bashir said.

“Just tell us what to do,” Leather Apron put in.

All around came nods and “Yes,” and “That’s right.”

“Okay. We first need a recon mission, if we can, to survey the situation. Fill in our map with blind corners, if any, where their outer perimeter is, how many of them there are, what weapons they have.” He didn’t have much hope, but he asked anyway, “Is there anyone who might be able to do that?”

Several hands went up, and four people headed toward the door, the last one, a middle-aged woman, saying, “We’ll be back in an hour.”

That took Jameson completely by surprise. “But no one responded when I asked about military experience.”

Leather Apron didn’t meet Jameson’s eyes as he said, “But we know the terrain, you might say. You let them go—they’ll get the answers you want.”

Jameson accepted that. “Okay, good. Second thing, we should post watchers on the hills above us. If they aren’t already there—whoever goes should be in groups, and take any weapons you have.”

“I’ll see to that,” Leather Apron said. “I’ll get Ralph.”

He took off, and Jameson said, “That woman on the reconnaissance team said they’d return in an hour, and I know I need to get some breakfast into me before the next step. So let’s break, and meet again, say . . . at ten? And we’ll go from there.”

The half-circle of people nodded, accepting his suggestion as an order—as a way to proceed in a situation no one had experience of. They walked off in knots of three and four, talking in low voices as Jameson turned to Kesley.

She looked up from her phone. “Maddy just texted. Breakfast will be waiting when we get there.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Since it’s just up the block, how about we walk instead of drive?”

“Sure. Just, let me get one of my sketchbooks out of the trunk.”

As soon as they reached the sidewalk, and had gained distance from the dispersing townspeople (some of whom were stopped by others coming out of shops, or cars, everyone asking questions and talking in low voices with quick looks in all directions), Jameson turned to Kesley. “What am I missing? There’s something those people aren’t telling me.”

Her steady gaze met his, then slid away. “Can we talk about that later?”

Something hovered in the air unspoken between them. He’d established his baseline by trusting Kesley. Now, before there was action, he felt that trust wavering. There was something. And she knew what it was.

At least she’s not feeding me some lie
, he thought. She was also obviously really unhappy about the question. Someone else’s secret, maybe? Trust had to go two ways—was she keeping someone else’s trust? It wasn’t some other guy. With every cell of his body he was convinced that Kesley was no cheater, and further, he sensed that she had opened to him the way she never had to anyone else.

Okay, so this situation here, it was some kind of crossroads. Shitty timing—he had enough to deal with—but it was what it was.

So . . . what next? It took a few more steps to figure out the restless sense of urgency compelling him to trust her. It was that inner voice again. It fretted there inside his ribs somewhere, or maybe that sensation was only in his head, but it didn’t subside until he said, “Sure. Your call.”

Yes
, the inner voice whispered.
Trust your mate
.

‘Mate.’ There it was again. He would swear the word was not in his usual vocabulary, but as he listened to Kesley’s quiet steps in rhythm with his on the sidewalk, breathed in the scent of her tea tree shampoo and below that her own delicious scent, felt the brush of her arm against his own, he knew the rightness of the word. ‘Mate’ resonated deeply in a way he could not explain any more than he could explain how he knew how to establish covering fields of fire.

They reached the eatery, where Ralph’s wife waited, along with Maddy and a guy who looked like he had to be her brother. The two of them brought out plates of hot food, then stood by the table. “What’s been decided?” the brother asked.

Jameson suppressed the urge to talk, and let Kesley brief the couple. She did it quickly, placing a slight emphasis on the words, “Kate Odom, Tonio DelGiorgio, and the Ryans are going to scout. Then we’re meeting at ten to figure out where to go from there.”

Jameson sensed an unstated importance in the names of those going on the recon. Again that inner voice stirred, restless. He felt he ought to know, but once again he slammed against the limits of his own brain.