Chapter 2
A bitter, insistent ray of light forces Clara back to the waking world. It tugs at her, breaking her dreams like shattered glass, until she has no choice but to open her eyes.
When she wakes, Clara does so abruptly. Her eyes fly open, her entire body throwing itself into action at once. Gasping, she blinks to get the blinding sting of sunlight out of her eyes.
Once the initial shock fades and her heart rate goes down somewhat, she attempts to breathe normally. Her lungs ache from the effort, but eventually she gets used to it. When she’s calm enough to evaluate her situation, she looks around.
Soft midday sun breaks through the blinds of her bedroom. She’s in the bedroom, and Clara wonders if everything that happened was a dream. One glance at her hand proves otherwise. Her arm is wrapped in bandages and splint. Underneath the covers, Clara can feel more bandaging.
Under the bandaging, burning pain crosses from near her shoulder to near her abdomen, striped. Claw marks?
Panic threatens to overtake her, but she forces herself to breathe. She’s in her house and not in the hospital. Why? Did doctors or police come? If they did, why would she be treated at her home instead of a hospital or at least a clinic?
Alice? No, Alice doesn’t know medical care. Clara doesn’t know of anyone else who would visit and take care of her.
That is, unless…unless the man stayed. Mouth opening slightly, Clara tilts her head toward the doorway. She immediately regrets doing so, however, as an intense pain seems to wrap around the tendons in her neck.
Quieting her breathing, she listens to the rest of the house. The only sound that registers is the whistling wind.
Clara’s wheelchair has been replaced near the bed. Furrowing her brow, she considers trying to get into it. The knowledge that at least one bone in her arm is likely broken and she’s injured in at least two other ways doesn’t make that seem any easier.
Curiosity and anxiety about what’s happened, however, drive her to try. As she sits in bed, pain spirals up her spine and tries to choke her. She swallows, looking to the bedside table. A glass of water and bottle of Ibuprofen have been left for her. Clara gnaws on her lip before reaching for the water and swallowing two tablets.
It won’t be enough, but hopefully it’ll help take some of the edge off.
Using her one free hand, Clara reaches for the wheelchair and somehow manages to pull it closer. Once it’s close, she drags herself off the bed and into the chair with a pained whine. She breathes in sharply, leaning her head back.
The hard part over, Clara considers how to steer with limited mobility. Pushing her broken arm back so she can reach the back part of the wheel without bending her arm at the elbow, she starts to turn the wheelchair. It takes fiddling, but eventually she manages to get out her bedroom door and down the hallway to the living room.
She was wrong about the midday lighting. It’s evening, the light slowly fading. How long was I out? Most noticeable, however, is the damage from the other night is still there.
Near the edge of the kitchen, the pieces of broken lamp have been swept into a dustpan. Clear plastic is secured over the opening of the broken sliding glass door, taped firmly on all sides. Rolling awkwardly forward, she looks around as much as she can without straining her neck.
There’s a jacket folded over the couch, a jacket she doesn’t recognize. It’s dark gray with a hood. Clara’s heart slows in her chest, and she shivers. He’s still here, isn’t he?
There are wide scratches on the wooden floor near the sliding glass door, ones that rake in deep. It’ll be expensive to fix, which is the first thing Clara thinks when she sees it. The second thing she thinks of is the sensation of claws raking through her skin.
She drifts her unused hand to her stomach. The wounds could be much deeper. She knows she got off lucky. Before last night, she’d never seen a shifter that big. In college, she had a friend who was a bird shifter. That’s a completely different ballgame than a huge polar bear in her kitchen.
Clara’s brain flashes back to the news channel in the coffee shop. Steeling her jaw, she tries not to jump to conclusions. Still, she’s not as far as she would like to be from Charlottetown, and…well, he did break into her house and attack her.
“You know, if you went to all the effort to get in the wheelchair and risk injuring yourself further, you would think a smart person would get to her phone and call the cops.”
The voice scares the bejeezus out of her. It’s the same deep, soul-vibrating, quiet one from last night. Grabbing the right wheel with her uninjured hand, she yanks it backward and awkwardly turns around after a moment of struggle. Heart jumping in her chest, she looks at the man.
He’s tall. Obviously, his height now is nothing compared to the polar bear form she saw last night, but this man is definitely at least six feet tall.
His hair is dark. It’s messy, falling over his eyes. It’s wet, too—he looks like he just showered. That hypothesis is further backed by the fact that he’s shirtless, and the light glints off dampness on his tanned skin in a few places.
Clara’s mouth parts slightly. What really draws her eyes, more than the height, more than his deep, dark, uncomfortably alluring green eyes, are the bruises covering his torso. They’re everywhere, blotching every part of him. It’s not just bruises, either. He’s got a few lacerations, some covered with fresh bandages and some Band-Aids she recognizes as the purple-colored ones from her first aid cupboard.
Breathing slowly, she looks to his face. “You’re a shifter.”
The dark-haired man looks amused, his blank expression cutting apart to something a little lighter. “Astute observation. How much do you remember?”
He’s right—you should have called the cops, her brain reminds her. Hell, you should be calling them right now, Clara. She doesn’t listen. Instead, she just stares at the man and formulates her answer. “I hit you over the head. You turned into a bear. You threw me into the sliding door.” Clara nods at the clear plastic.
The man nods, looking tired. Clara realizes she probably didn’t hear noise in the house because he had just turned off the shower. Something about that rubs her the wrong way—probably the fact that it was her shower. She turns her head to the side a bit, looking at him through narrowed eyes.
“Who are you, and why are you in my house?”
The dark-haired man, with that same half-gloomy, half-amused look, sighs. “Finally, a sensible question.” He pauses, glancing at the sea before he speaks again. “I’m…passing through.” His eyes drop to the ground, and the man runs a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I was going to leave the house before you noticed I was here after I got a couple hours of sleep. Swear on my life, I didn’t mean to shift, but my body just does it when I’m injured—”
“—and I hit you with the tea kettle,” Clara fills in, gaining some amount of understanding. She should feel more panicked about this than she is. Probably her brain has gone so far past panic that all that’s left is blank curiosity and a desire for answers.
Relief washes over the man’s face, and he starts to speak, but she cuts him off. “What’s your name, where are you from, and why are you still here? If you didn’t mean to hurt me, why am I not at a hospital or a doctor’s office?”
He opens his mouth and then snaps it closed. Irritation washes over his face. “I’m not required to answer all that. I’m still here because I hurt you and I have an EMT certification and it’s a danger to me to take you to a hospital right now.”
“I could call the cops, like you said,” Clara points out, but the man shakes his head.
“Sorry, I didn’t actually take that risk. I hid your phone for now.” He sighs, running his fingers through dark locks.
Clara furrows her eyebrows, imagining the shift she saw last night. It looked painful. Is it always that painful?
Clara shrugs. “Your funeral.”
The man looks confused. “What?”
“My mom calls regularly to check up on me. She’s convinced I’m going to get killed out here on my. If I don’t answer the phone, she’s sure to call the cops and send them here.” Clara gives the man an ugly smirk. “So you holding me hostage here won’t work.”
Anger flares in the man’s eyes, and he steps toward her, grabbing her chin and staring down at her. “I am not,” he spits, “holding you hostage. I’d be gone already and on my way somewhere else if I hadn’t hurt you.”
She smacks his hand away. “And you can’t just take me to a hospital like a normal person?”
“No,” he says, “It’s complicated. I’m sorry.”
Clara grits her teeth, using one hand to roll herself back a few feet, into the kitchen island. “I asked for your name. I want your name, if you won’t give me anything else.”
A shadow passes over the man’s expression, and for a moment Clara thinks he’s about to shift, or strike out, or just flat out refuse again. When he finally opens his mouth, his hard expression softens. “Nathanael.” Then he corrects. “Nathan.”
“Thank you,” she says, slumping into her wheelchair.
Nathan looks like he’s waiting for something. When she doesn’t give it, he speaks. His voice is low and gravelly and quiet. “What about your name?”
“Oh. Clara,” she answers. She brings her eyes to meet Nathan’s. “Why did you break into my house? Why not go to a hotel if you just needed a place to stay?”
He shakes his head. “Not possible. It’s complicated.”
“What’s not complicated?” She snaps, and the man jolts. “What can you explain to me?”
The shifter’s mouth gapes. “Look, I can’t tell you everything. I’m being followed, and staying in a hotel would leave a trace.”
Clara’s heart lurches as her mind travels back to the news of the Charlottetown murder. She gnaws on her lip, unsure how to respond to him. Her attempts to be headstrong would work better if she wasn’t afraid below the surface. “Is that why you’re all covered in bruises? Were you in a fight?”
The man furrows his eyebrows as if confused and then blinks in realization. “No, that’s…” He grits his teeth. “That’s something else. It happens when I shift.”
Nathan stares at her and steps forward and kneels in front of her. She tries not to pull away as he clasps his hands around her free right hand.
“There’s too much to explain. I can’t tell you. If you go to a hospital, my scent will be on you and in your skin and other shifters will find you and use that to find me. Please. I’m begging you. Let me stay here and take care of your injuries just for a few days, and then I’ll be gone.” He looks desperate. “I wasn’t here to steal. There’s no cover outside, and the wind would carry too much of my scent if I slept there.”
His eyes, dark green and pulling her in, soften as he practically begs on his knees. Skeptical, Clara turns her head to the side. She shouldn’t accept this. His mouth twitches a little, and she watches as he bites his lip in the same nervous habit she has.
That does it. The similarity makes her give in. The excitement is too strong, or maybe it’s just…maybe it’s just his eyes? Unfortunately, definitely the eyes.
Her heart skips. Don’t do that, Clara.
“You can stay,” she says. “Just for a few days. Until I’m more patched up.” Clara drops her gaze.
Nathan lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll help with chores. I’ll cook. I’ll do whatever you need—”
“Can you start by watering my plants?” Clara asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks at her, eyes widening. He looks softer like that. He’s young, close to her age.
Nathan glances at the patio. “Yes. I’ll do that.” He stands and starts to go and turns back. “I can help you back to your room—”
“Maybe just the couch in here?” Clara forces a tiny smile, although the situation is still tense and uncomfortable. Clara, you idiot, why aren’t you asking him to leave?
He pushes the wheelchair to the couch. She’s about to stand, but he’s too fast. Nathan picks her up in his arms. Head pressed against his chest, she feels her heart flip. His arms are muscular, and his chest seems broader. She breathes in, closing her eyes as he sets her down.
Looking up at him, she opens her mouth and thinks about telling him that she could have stood on her. Something makes her hold back, though. She’s not sure if it’s a desire to keep that fact a secret in case she ever needs it to escape or just a desperate, underlying desire for him to pick her up again.
Exhaustion hits her again, even though she’s done almost nothing but sleep for most of the last twenty-four hours. She closes her eyes as Nathan steps into the other room. When he comes back, she opens her eyes just enough to see he’s holding her phone.
Nathan deliberates for a moment, eventually setting it on the TV stand—far enough that she can’t reach it easily, but not so far that he’s making a deliberate decision to stop her. He’s probably keeping it there so that he can hand the phone to Clara if her mom calls.
Unsure what she should even do in this situation, she pulls into herself, keeping her arms close. Clara closes her eyes once she hears him go outside, but she doesn’t intend to sleep.
Unfortunately, her body has other plans. When she finally wakes up again, someone is gently shaking her arm. She snaps her eyes open, gasping and sitting up. Immediately, pain speaks through her stomach and arm, and she cries out. Nathan’s hands steady her.
“Calm. It’s just me.”
“You talk like you’re an old friend of mine,” she murmurs, heart racing. He helps her lie back down, and she tries to breathe slowly. It’s long past dark now. He has two bowls of pasta and hands her one.
Clara stares at it for a moment. Laughing under his breath a little, Nathan takes a bite of his. “It’s not poisoned.”
“I didn’t think it was,” Clara quips. “If you wanted me dead or drugged, you’d have done that already.”
Nathan’s face pales. “Why would I want you drugged?”
“You know, sometimes men…” Clara trails off, feeling put off by his horrified expression. “I know you wouldn’t do anything like that—”
“You don’t know anything about me,” the dark-haired man snaps, standing and plopping down in the chair next to her. He takes a few bites of his pasta and sets it down, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“And whose fault is that?” Clara says after a moment. This gets Nathan’s attention, and he opens and closes his mouth like she’s put him in the spotlight.
She takes the initiative. “My name is Clara Summers. I’m a music critic. I have muscular sclerosis and cannot walk most of the time, as you may have noticed. Before you ask— no, I haven’t been in a wheelchair my whole life. The disease usually develops in people in their late teens and early twenties. It became symptomatic when I was eighteen, and at twenty-three it progressed to the point that I use a wheelchair as a mobility aid most the time.”
Smiling, she takes a bite of the pasta and continues. “I was born in Vancouver. I enjoy gardening and staring at the beach, given that it’s not very wheelchair accessible. What about you?”
He stares at her. “My name is Nathan.” He pauses, furrowing his brow. She looks at his clenched jaw and wishes it didn’t elicit the heart-flipping reaction it does. “I was born in Yukon, but I’ve always moved around a lot.”
“Yeah? Do you have family?” she pries, half out of curiosity and half because she wants to deduce his identity.
Nathan nods. “Yeah.” He pauses, running one hand through his messy, pitch-black locks. Clara can’t help but stare. “I have an older sister, Naomi.”
“Do you two get along?”
“Sometimes,” Nathan says with a tiny smile. He glances out the windows. “I figure she’s probably coming for me.”
Clara’s eyes open wider. “Is she a shifter, too?”
Sighing into his palm, Nathan nods again. “She’s something they call the ‘guardian of the blood clan.’ She’s stronger. She can erase memory and do other things. She and a friend of mine are both guardians.” He narrows his eyes at Clara with a sly smile that makes her shiver. “I wouldn’t surprise if both came to drag my ass back, really.”
“You’re running away from them? Why?”
Nathanael shakes his head, standing and taking her empty food bowl as well as his to the kitchen a few steps away. “A misunderstanding.”
“What kind?”
This time, he stays silent. Irritated, Clara lies down. Pain tingles her torso where she knows she’s cut. Eventually, Nathan comes back with more Ibuprofen and some of the Ambien prescribed to help her sleep. Ready to not be conscious anymore, she takes it and quickly falls asleep.
The next few days pass uneventfully. Nathan, who is mostly distant and gloomy, cooks and gardens and does chores. He brings Clara her laptop so she can work, and Clara tells people she’s fine, despite knowing she should probably call the police.
Still, something draws her to Nathan in a way she can’t ignore. She’s caught him staring, too—usually through the window when he gardens. His eyes are so dark but they glint moss green in the light. The bruises on his golden skin, along with the lacerations she saw before, quickly disappear.
Eventually, her body catches up and she stops sleeping so much. One day, she wakes before he can change her bandages while she sleeps. Clara is reading when he comes inside and kneels by the couch. “I’m going to change all the gauze. OK, Clara?”
Those dark eyes look up at her. “OK,” she breathes.
Nathan is careful when he takes her left arm. Tired and intrigued, she watches the man work.
He unwraps the bandages, holding her wrist in place. She’s glad he does—as soon as she sees the skin, the damage becomes clear. Her wrist feels weak, and the thought of bending it makes her feel faint. The skin is dappled with ugly green and black bruising.
“You broke my wrist,” she says, more observation than question.
Avoiding her gaze, Nathan nods. “Yeah. Sorry.” Once the bandages are off, he releases her arm. Picking up a damp, warm towel, he wipes the skin. “Dislocated your elbow, too.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” she says sarcastically, and he looks up to see the tiny smile on her face.
He keeps cleaning and then starts rewrapping her arm with the splint. “Why are you so calm about this? Me being here and all of it, I mean.”
Clara bites her lip, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know. It seems unavoidable, doesn’t it?” She pauses “I know it’s foolish, but you don’t…you don’t scare me much, really.”
Something dark flashes in Nathan’s eyes. “That is foolish. I injured you. Don’t forget it.”
After a moment, it’s Clara’s turn to ask questions. As much as the media has hyped up the reality of shifters in the last ten years, she still knows so little. “Can’t you…I mean, aren’t shifters supposed to be able to control themselves?”
“Yes, but I’m—” Nathan clenches his hand around her wrist, making her cry out. When she does, he stops his train of thought entirely. “God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
She snatches her wrist away, hurting herself more and resting the damaged arm across her torso. “No. I want answers. Why did you attack me if shifters are all civilized and whatever the media says?”
He pauses, looking hurt. “I’m…a little different. It’s complicated.”
“You haven’t given me a single answer in the last few days,” she snaps, “I have a right to know. You broke into my house. I haven’t told anyone you’re here. It’s the least you can do.”
Nathan seems cornered. The expression slowly drops to something glowering and bitter. “I just can’t control myself as easily as everyone else, OK? It’s a genetic thing. I can’t change it.” He sighs. “No one works on shifter medication because people don’t like shifters, so there’s nothing I can do about it. It just makes it painful to shift, and when I do shift, I’m usually more animal than human. That’s why there were bruises when you first saw me.”
“Oh,” she says, “I didn’t know that shifter-only disorders existed.”
“They do. They’re not well researched and unfortunately for me, there’s no good treatment plan for them.” Nathan avoids her gaze, securing the last bit of bandaging on her neck and arm. Pausing, his irritated expression melts to something hesitant.
Clara rests a hand on his arm. “What?”
“I need to— “he starts, “I need to change the bandages on your stomach and legs.”
This makes Clara pause. The thought of him touching her body like that, even just to tend to her wounds, makes something inside her stir. The realization hits her a moment later, however, that it’s already happened. “Wait, you’ve been tending to my bandages while I’ve been asleep. You’ve already done that, so why is it an issue now?”
“Because you’re awake,” Nathan explains, making direct eye contact. His expression is more serious than awkward now, and something about the way he looks at her makes Clara feel vulnerable in a predator-prey way.
“Oh,” she murmurs out, still not breaking eye contact.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Oh.” Nathan rests his hand on the couch cushion. “So, are you comfortable with that or not? If not, you’ll have to do it yourself, and I don’t think that will go over well. It has to be done, though. An infection is the worst thing that could happen right now.”
Clara deliberates for a moment. The truth is that it isn’t really a decision—if anything, she wants him to touch her. “OK,” she breathes. “OK. You can do it.”
Nodding, Nathan reaches for her shirt. Focused, he unbuttons the blue pajama top before slipping it down to pool around her elbows. Carefully he peels away the gauze secured with adhesive tape to her chest.
Clara breathes shallowly, staring as he works. The wounds aren’t as deep as she had thought. Nathan soon validates this. “You’re healing up well. Is there much pain?”
Clara thinks, then shakes her head. “Not where the cuts are, no.”
“Good.” Nathan smiles before getting up and getting a fresh cloth.
When he returns, he gently wipes her torso. He reaches where the lacerations cut between her breasts, and he gently lifts her bra at the middle and smooths the cloth. Clara breathes shakily, finely attuned to the touch of his left hand as he cleans her injuries with the cloth in his right. With that area done, he replaces her bra and slides the cloth, and his touch, up to her shoulder. The cuts end near her collarbone.
Nathan doesn’t look at her as he works. Breathing through her nose, she opens her mouth and asks the question on her mind. “How do you keep so serious doing this?”
“What do you mean? I have some medical training, I told you that.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Clara shakes her head. “Doesn’t this feel…I mean, isn’t it—” She pauses, biting her lip. Slowly, on impulse, she grabs his hand and pulls it to her face so she’s breathing on Nathan’s fingers. “Isn’t it intimate or embarrassing?”
Nathan’s eyes open wide and then soften into the sleepy, self-assured expression that she’s grown to look forward to. “It wasn’t before,” he says, curling his fingers and brushing them against Clara’s cheek. “But maybe now it is.”
Nathan tucks a chunk of hazelnut-colored locks behind her ear, staring at her with an expression can’t read. “Your hair is soft,” he murmurs. He starts to pull his hand away.
He’s not fast enough. Clara grabs his wrist before he can stand and leave. He frowns. “Let me go, Clara.”
“Why are you so distant?” she demands. “You feel something. Why are you running? Is there someone else. Is that why the other shifters are following you?”
Nathan snatches his hand away, wincing. Something pained flashes in his eyes, and Clara realizes that she’s said something hurtful. “No,” he answers quickly, dropping his hand to his side. “There’s no one else.”
“I’m going to make breakfast.” The dark-haired man turns and starts to go.
Clara panics. She can feel the moment fading, slipping away with every second. Desperate to cling onto his warmth, she calls out. “Nathanael—”
Jolting at the use of his full name, he stops in his tracks and turns. Clara opens and closes her mouth, trying to think of what to say. “What if it didn’t mean anything? What if you just…what if you let go of whatever’s hurting you, just for a moment?”
She sits, swinging her legs over the side of the couch. Shakily, Clara forces herself to stand. Legs wobbling and in pain, she braces herself by clinging to the edge of the couch and then the table. Nathan watches, eyes wide. He seems shocked and takes a step back as she walks toward him. She’s got the worst pins and needles she’s had in weeks, but she swallows it down until she staggers into him, falling into his body.
“I don’t know why I trust you because I shouldn’t,” she pleads, feet slipping. Clara clings to Nathan’s body, wrapping her arms around his back and shoving her face into his chest. “But I do. Please don’t run from me. You’re not the only one who’s struggling. I feel something, and I think you do, too—”
Her legs buckle. Her heart jumps in her chest. At the last second, Nathan catches her, pulling her up, his arms steadying her around her back and waist.
“You’re right,” he breathes into her neck, making her shiver. “I do feel something.”
It feels natural when Nathan kisses her. They mold together. His lips are soft, and he tastes like mint.
Melting into his arms, she clings to him. Before long, he wraps his hands under her ass, lifting her up and bringing her back to the couch. When he sets her down, she folds her arms around his neck. His touch is so warm. Nathan’s hair falls into her eyes, tickling her forehead. When he looks down with those deep-green eyes, it feels like her heart is being slowly strangled in the best way possible.
He breathes in short gasps, almost like he’s panicking. Worried, Clara furrows her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid,” he blurts out, voice low and gravelly. “My last partner—”
“—she isn’t here,” Clara fills in gently, bringing her right hand to his face and running her thumb over his bottom lip. “I’m here, Nathan.”
He nods slowly, maintaining eye contact that she could drown in. When he exhales, she can feel the warmth on her face. “You’re here,” he murmurs, echoing her words.
He leans his body into hers, his closeness and heat making her feel short of breath. Nathan looks down at her, pressing his hand to her open hip where her shirt is still open. “I…still need to clean the wounds on your legs.”
Gently, intentionally, he slides his hand down to Clara’s thighs. “Go ahead,” she breathes, shivering. He drifts his lips over her jaw to her neck. There, he leaves tender kisses where there are no bandages. Nathan’s mouth is slightly parted—Clara can tell from the way his breath stimulates her skin.
Slowly, he drifts his kisses down, over her collarbone. As they get closer, he reaches his hands behind her back and unclips the bra. To get it off, he slides the shirt off her body first. Clara shivers under his touch on his arms, relishing the warmth of his skin and the way he’s firm and gentle with her at the same time.
When her breasts are exposed to the air, he cups one in his hand before letting go. Drifting those godly lips down her skin, Nathan leaves fleeting kisses that sting and make Clara’s breath hitch. “Nathan—”
“Quiet,” he breathes, voice lilting. “I need to focus on first aid, love—” The pet name makes her shiver, but she complies nonetheless.
He slips both hands to the hem of her pajama pants, pulling them down her hips slowly, then over her knees and, finally, off her body. Left in just her black and white polka-dotted panties and the bandages around her neck, arm, legs, and across her chest, Clara shivers.
This doesn’t slip past Nathan. He rubs his hands up and down her torso and then grabs a blanket and wraps it around her shoulders as she sits against the couch.
Intimately, carefully, he unwraps the bandages and puts them in the small trash can near the couch. He gets a new washcloth. When he comes back, it’s still dripping. He rings it out over Clara’s shoulders, hips, and legs. Laughing, she brings her uninjured hand to his hip and runs it under the hem of his shirt.
Taking her cue, he strips off the shirt. Underneath, the bruises are barely visible anymore. If Clara thought she’d gotten used to his looks, his body, she was wrong.
Nathan tosses the fabric to the side before kneeling once more. He runs the washcloth over the nearly closed lacerations on her legs. There’s not much damage there, and she knows he doesn’t need to be as thorough as he’s being.
That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him to be, though.
Clara chokes on her breath as he smooths ointment over the skin. Next, the new bandages. When he wraps them around, he’s meticulous and slow. They feel snug around her legs. Looking down, Clara is struck over the head again by how truly gorgeous this man is.
She brings her hand to his face, brushing some of the messy, black locks behind one ear. He stares at her through narrowed eyes, a playful smirk on his face. “What can I do for you next, my mistress? I aim only to serve.”
Nathan runs his hand over the side of Clara’s thigh, dancing his fingers and leaving lines of fire. Clara tries to think of something witty to say. Her mind totally blanks under the weight of how much she wants him, and she’s left staring dumbly into his beautiful, stupid, breathtaking eyes.
“Please,” is all that comes out when she opens her mouth. She can feel desperation under the surface.
Nathan laughs, leaning his head into her thigh. It’s quiet, but it’s a real laugh followed by a real smile. “OK, Clara.” Her name sounds like liquid gold out of his mouth.
He slides a hand to her panties, gently sliding his fingers over the thin fabric. He touches her over and over until the light touching hits a spot near her clit that makes her breath hitch. She bucks her hips slightly, but Nathan shoves them down with one hand.
Teasing with his eyes, he slowly increases pressure. He rocks his hand back and forth, grinding into her most sensitive spot. As he does, he leans into her neck and leaves a trail of breathy, sensual kisses.
When Clara thinks she can’t take any more, he sinks to his knees and pulls her hips closer to the edge of the couch. She slumps back, succumbing to the smooth, warm touch of his hands. Nathan pulls Clara’s panties to the side and leans in, flicking his tongue against her clit.
She whines, legs shaking. Nathan presses her thighs down and brings his mouth closer. Teasing her with his tongue, he flicks his tongue against her and sucks her clit. He drifts his mouth down a little, pressing his tongue against her opening. Falling into the sensation, Clara moans and weaves the fingers of her right hand into her hair. “God, Nathan—” she breathes.
Riding the sensation, she lies back and lets him pleasure her in the sunlit living room. His mouth feels so good, his technique impeccable. Clara’s mind goes into a fuzzy, warm space. He rolls his tongue against her skin, teasing. As soon as she gets close, he backs off.
Eventually, she whines at him. “Nathan, please—” He looks up, detaching his mouth.
“Hm?”
Grabbing him by the face, she brings him up to her level and pulls him into a deep kiss. All the while, she grinds her hips up into his hardness. Nathan takes the lead, kissing deeper and reaching one hand down to undo his fly.
When he finally pulls away, he’s gasping. The sound of his voice, breathy and needy, makes something pulse between Clara’s thighs. Once his pants are off, Nathan pushes Clara down with her back on the couch cushions. Nathan’s eyes are soft, but she can feel a glimmer of the hungering beast inside of him.
“Are you OK with this?” he asks, voice gone lower than normal. There’s almost a purr to it, and Clara feels an electric shiver run up her legs to her hips and what’s between them.
“Yes,” she practically groans. “God, yes. Please, no more teasing.”
He nods, his smile turning into a sly smirk. He leans down, kissing inside of the crook of her neck. “You’re lovely, Clara.”
He positions his length between her legs. Slowly, carefully, he pushes in. His breath hitches against her skin, and Clara moans in a quiet murmur. She didn’t get a chance to see his length, but as he pushes all the way inside, she gets a pretty good idea of the size. Clara gasps, clutching onto him.
“This OK?” he asks into her ear. She makes a nondescript half whine, half nod, and he laughs quietly, almost nervously. “I’m glad.”
He pulls out most of the way, then slowly pushes back in. Leaving teasing, desperate, heated kisses all over her shoulders, collarbone, jaw, and mouth, Nathan starts to push in and out. He grinds inside of her. He brings a hand back to her clit, teasing her both inside and outside.
Somehow, he manages to be careful of Clara injuries. He rocks into her, their bodies close. Clara doesn’t feel cold anymore. Her open lips brush against Nathan’s shoulder, breath dissolving into desperate gasps.
She can feel herself getting closer and closer.
“Fuck,” he says. “You feel so good.”
His voice is once again a quiet purr but more needy. Clara clings onto it, onto him, letting herself fall. His body, so much larger than her, feels like a protective barrier between her and the rest of the world. She doesn’t need one but right now, her body shielded by his, his length inside of her, it feels nice.
When she comes, she digs her nails into his back. She cries out. Clara can hear Nathan’s breathing stop, and he thrusts deeper before releasing with a low, vibrating groan. The effect of his climax rolls through her, and she gasps quietly with the vibration of his body.
Nathan pulls Clara close, lying with his back to couch so he’s spooning her. She relaxes into him, letting herself melt into his form. Her warmth pulses through her.
Clara starts to drop off in no time, lulled into a feeling of comfort she can’t recall having with a man in a long, long time.