Chapter Nine: Gunnar

 

 

After Melody locked the door, she kept hold of Gunnar's hand and led him through the aisles between the bookcases, to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. She paused briefly before opening it.

Gunnar hardly even cared where they were going. She could have led him anywhere. Her fingers were petal-soft in his.

In his other hand, he carefully held the book she'd given him, the one about the bull who was told to be cruel, but decided to be kind instead, even though it went against what everyone said his nature was supposed to be.

Maybe ex-cons could be that way too.

The EMPLOYEES ONLY door opened into a room that combined the functions of storeroom and office. A small desk with a single beat-up office chair and a folding table were nearly invisible between, and beneath, stacks of cardboard boxes and heaps of books.

"I really need more help than just Jimmy," Melody sighed. She let go of Gunnar's hand to move some boxes. Seeing that she was trying to clear a space in the corner, Gunnar quickly moved to help. They settled into a rhythm, Melody handing him boxes and Gunnar finding places to put them on the increasingly unsteady stacks.

"Who's Jimmy?" He managed to suppress his bear's growl of jealousy. She was his mate, and he was hers; it didn't matter who she talked to, or who she'd known before.

"My one and only employee, who unfortunately doesn't know a preface from an appendix when it comes to books. Ah."

Her box-clearing had revealed a small office safe. She knelt in front of it and dialed in a quick combination. With her hand on the safe door, she looked up at Gunnar, her eyes wide and vulnerable.

"Every dragon's hoard has a Heart," she told him. "It can be almost anything. My friend Tessa was once the Heart of a dragon's hoard, although she isn't anymore. And ..." She turned to the safe door and opened it. "This is mine."

She took out a small book and cradled it in her hands for a moment, running her fingertips reverently across the cover, before handing it up to Gunnar.

This was no treasured, leather-bound first edition. It was a thin, inexpensive-looking paperback, its cover scuffed, stained, and held together with tape. The pages were dog-eared and the book's spine was broken, so it wanted to fall open to the middle.

This was a book that had been very well loved by a small child. Gunnar held it with desperate care, afraid that it was going to disintegrate in his hands.

"Where the Wild Things Are," he read slowly aloud. With exquisite care, he opened it to a random page. The illustrations startled him, bold and cartoony and not at all what he thought Melody would like. No dense blocks of text here, just scattered words, easy to read.

Melody smiled shyly up at him. "It's about a little boy who pretends to be a wolf—though when I was a child, of course, I thought he really turned into a wolf. I was so excited to find a book about a little child like me, a shifter child! And then he has adventures in a land full of monsters. In the end he has to go be a little boy again, just like I had to stop running around the house hissing at people, and shift back to a little girl and eat my supper and have my bedtime. But that magic place was still there, and I could go back to it any time I liked by opening that book. I read it over and over and over, until ..." She touched her chest, pressing her hand to the gray sweater. "Until it became part of my heart."

Part of her heart. Gunnar looked over at the Ferdinand book, which he'd placed on top of a pile of boxes while he helped Melody move stuff around. He hadn't really understood what she had been talking about yesterday, when she spoke of books being like old friends. Books couldn't be friends. They were just words on pages, words which had always opposed him at every turn.

But that was before he'd opened the Ferdinand book and started to read it, and he'd been startled to find out how much the bull, who was just a fictional character in a children's book, reminded him of himself. Sometimes a book could take the words that were in your heart—unspoken, unnoticed, maybe even hidden from you—and put them down onto a page.

And now he held Melody's heart in his hands, all fragile and torn up and patched with tape.

"You can read that, if you like." Melody's voice was soft and shy. "But ... uh ... I have newer copies out front, if you'd rather read one of those."

The pages that Gunnar had opened the book to, as well as being dog-eared and worn, also had crayon scribbles on them—red and orange loops, and a pencil scribble that looked something like a dog ... no, a dragon, playing with the rest of the monstrous creatures and breathing crayon fire. Drawn by Melody, twenty-five or thirty years ago. Carefully, trying not to dislodge the loosely glued pages, Gunnar turned to the first page, where he found what he had thought he might find: Melody's name, printed very carefully in crayon by the tiny hands of a child just learning to read.

Books were more than words; they were little pieces of personal history. Books were memories of reading, or being read to. He thought that from now on, whenever he read the Ferdinand book, he would always remember sitting on the colorful little patch of carpet in the children's section of Melody's bookstore, experiencing the book for the first time.

He wanted to treasure every page of this book, every little note or scribble that Melody had left there. He had to force himself to close it, and very carefully to hand it back to her. Gently and reverently, she put it back in the safe.

"I want to read it," he told her, and knelt beside her so she didn't have to look up at him. "I want to read it with you. And I'm going to. But not right now."

"What do you want to do now?" Her voice was hushed, her eyes dilated.

"This," he murmured, and leaned across the space between them to kiss her, for the first time by daylight.

She had offered him her heart; he could only offer his in return.

Her lips were soft and warm and responsive. She made a tiny gasp against his mouth and it went straight to his groin. He wanted her—all of her, not just the hot body that he knew she was hiding under those sexy librarian sweaters, but her sharp, compassionate mind and her deep emotions and her strong dragon's heart. The hurt parts of her, the scared parts of her, the parts were angry and the parts that weren't nice: he wanted those too. He loved—

He loved her. The realization hit as sudden as a slap.

"What is it?" She drew back and looked at him with puzzled gray eyes. "You stopped."

The sudden bolt of understanding had left him shaken. He loved every inch of her. Her eyes—he loved her eyes, in all their subtle shades of gray with hints of color (blue, green, soft hazel) when the light struck them just right. He loved the curve of her cheek, loved the dark strands of hair escaping from the severe bun she'd pulled it back into before leaving the house, loved her firm little chin and the way the corner of her full mouth quirked up slightly even when she wasn't smiling, as if at some private joke, giving her a Mona Lisa air of mystery—

"Gunnar? Is everything all right?"

"Thinking too much. That's all." He reached behind her head. "Okay if I take this down?"

She nodded, her head moving against his hand. She was still gazing into his eyes, her lips parted. He touched the hard knot of her bun and the clasp holding it in place, and undid it carefully. Her hair unwound from the bun in a dark waterfall, pouring down over her shoulders.

He yearned to see her clothed in nothing but that dark cascade. But he didn't want to rush it. He ran a thumb over her swollen lower lip, and her mouth opened responsively as he leaned in to kiss her again.

The first time had been cautious and tentative. This time she kissed him back like a wild woman, her mouth open and wanting, making gasping little moans. He let out a groan himself as he gathered her soft weight into his lap. She writhed against him, her hands all over him, skin touching skin as she slipped one hand into the gap between his T-shirt and the waistband of his pants.

Her gray cardigan was fastened up the front with a bunch of tiny little buttons. Gunnar undid them one by one. Beneath it, she wore a white blouse with little roses embroidered around the collar. Her nipples were erect, and he brushed his thumbs across them, drawing out more little moans, as he kissed and nibbled at her jaw and neck.

More tiny buttons to undo, and then her blouse parted to reveal her glorious breasts in a peach-colored cotton bra. The gold chain he'd glimpsed around her neck earlier was some kind of necklace with a locket dangling from it, nestled in the delicious valley between her breasts as if to call attention to it.

"If I'd known we were going to do this," she gasped against his shoulder as he reached around behind her to undo the clasp, "I'd have gone out and bought some sexy underwear—oh—"

The bra came free and he finally got a look at the naked bounty of her breasts. Her nipples were a darker shade of the same coral pink as her lips. Melody rose to her knees, and Gunnar lapped at her nipples while she raked her fingernails across his short hair and the back of his neck, panting.

He could smell her arousal. When he reached a hand between her legs, she jerked in reaction and pressed against him. He rubbed her through her jeans, feeling the hard nub of her arousal even with the fabric in the way. Too much fabric ...

"Too many clothes," she mumbled, as if reading his mind, and slipped her hands under the shoulders of his jacket to strip it away.

With reluctance, he pulled himself away from her glorious breasts, away from the heat between her legs, but only long enough to ditch his scratchy, ill-fitting jacket. The T-shirt he wore wasn't even his; Gaby had given him a clean one of Derek's to put on, and he stripped it off and flung it over his shoulder, not even caring where it fetched up.

Melody laughed her beautiful bell-like laugh. She was sitting back with her hands on the floor and one leg cocked up, her bra hanging off her shoulder from one arm. Pink color had risen in her cheeks to compete with the darker pink of her lips.

"Like what you see?" he asked, letting a hint of a growl slip into his voice, because women seemed to like that, and he'd never wanted to please a woman like he wanted to please this one.

She nodded vigorously, her long black hair swishing around her bare shoulders. She was still wearing her glasses and he found it unendurably hot—hotter still when she leaned forward to admire his bare chest not just with her eyes, but with hands and lips and teeth. As if the sight of his bare torso had broken some dam of desire inside her, she scrambled onto him, and he met her onslaught eagerly, burying his face in her wonderful black hair. It smelled even better than it had in his dreams, perfumed with shampoo and female arousal.

When she pulled back from enthusiastically love-biting his neck, hair tousled and glasses askew, Gunnar reached to lift the glasses from her face. She shook her head. "I want to be able to see you."

"We'll smudge 'em."

"They'll clean."

He would have liked to see her eyes without them, but there would be time, he thought. There would be time to worship all of her, to learn every last inch of her body, every mole and freckle. Time to learn everywhere she liked to be touched, when she liked it fast and when she liked it slow ...

But right now he sensed her need rising to match his own. She was in his lap, curvy and eager, all but climbing him, and he desperately wanted more of her. He allowed himself to be pressed backward to the floor, catching his weight with one arm to lower them both to the old worn floorboards. Having her on top of him sent an almost unbearable spike of desire through him, but he clenched his teeth and got hold of himself. He would make this last, for both their sakes.

So he loved her breasts with mouth and hands, as she mapped his body with her lips and her nimble fingers. She undid his jeans and he helped her peel them off along with his boxers; then he stripped off her jeans and the pink cotton panties with just a hint of lace along the edge.

He was so hard he ached, and Melody moaned softly when he cupped a hand under her curls and dipped a finger into her wetness. She was straddling him, and as she started to lower herself onto the length of him, he caught her despite the craving setting him on fire and whispered, "Wait."

"I want—" she gasped.

"I know. Me too." He lowered her gently to the floor. "But I feel like the minute I get inside you, I'm gonna—Just let me make this last for you."