CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Richard woke, as he had for decades, just as the sun slipped past the horizon line. He felt Jane's head resting on his shoulder and smiled; what a wonderful way to start the evening. And he was warm, delightfully warm. He'd have to do something really nice for her for not killing him. Something extraordinary. Maybe...perhaps...releasing her into the wilds of Boston? (Also: heaven help the city of Boston.)
He couldn't. He knew it was the right thing to do, knew he had no business keeping her, but every time he thought of his home, his life, emptied of her presence, he wanted to shiver. Hell, he wanted to go for a jog in the sunshine.
It wasn’t just the sex, although her body was a delight. But as wondrous as the sex was, it was nothing compared to the sounds she made when she was about to come, when his mouth was on her, when his cock was in her, when she was looking at him over her shoulder as he gripped her hips and pounded into her, her large dark eyes almost glazed with lust as she urged him on.
Yesterday she’d climbed on top and rode him while she ran her hands all over her breasts and belly, pinching her nipples and moaning, giving him a dazzling display of a woman lost in sensual sensation and chasing her pleasure. He’d groaned and his eyes rolled back and he held on—barely!—as she ground down on him and whispered not yet, Dick, I’m close, give me ten...more...seconds...
No, it wasn’t just the sex, wondrous as that was. He adored the whole woman, not just facets of her. He loved talking to her, he loved listening to her, he loved tempting her with culinary treats. He even loved the ridiculous food fight she’d instigated when he told her Game of Thrones was nothing more than a bastardized version of the Wars of the Roses, with dragons.
He couldn't even delude himself into thinking it was about revenge anymore. Even if she had lied—and she had, of course she had—they were square after that first night. No, he was keeping her because he was a selfish monster and letting her go was unthinkable. To be brutally honest, he was thrilled she was sticking to her story, because it gave him the perfect excuse to keep her.
Like a pet? Like a piece of furniture?
He shook off the inner voice. The fact that he wasn't pinned to the bed with a table leg through his rib cage was encouraging. He was as hopeful as he'd been in—what year was it? She had her chance for vengeance, and hadn't taken it. And he doubted the lovely Jane was in the habit of passing up chances to avenge herself. Was it possible she'd forgiven him? That was too unrealistic to believe, but perhaps there was hope. Perhaps—
"No-no-no-no!" She was crying. Crying in her sleep. He was so startled he nearly leapt off the bed. Never had he heard his Jane so terrified, and so young.
"I didn't—don't.”
“Jane?”
“Don’t die, please don't die don’t don’t don’t!"
She was clawing at him in her sleep until he caught her hands and squeezed. "Jane, love. It's a dream. It's not real." Anymore, he added silently. His chest and throat felt tight. Whatever had happened, it had been horrifying enough to scare her away from lovemaking for years and years.
And then you tricked her into letting you take her.
Her dark eyes flew open, and he was shocked to see tears spilling down her cheeks. "I didn't mean to," she sobbed.
"Of course you didn't."
"They told me it wasn't a good idea—monkeys are fragile—I didn't listen." She made a small fist and thumped it against his chest. "Why didn't I listen?” She answered herself in a tone heavy with bitterness and regret: “Because we thought we were grown-ups.”
He put his hands on her face (carefully!) and wiped away the tears with his thumbs. “I think you’re being far too hard on yourself.”
She shook her head and looked up at him. “We were sick of being kids and we were both seventeen and at first it was fun—it didn't even hurt, and I thought it was supposed to hurt the first time. Y’know, just a little? Maybe it only hurts monkeys the first time. Because it didn’t hurt me at all and everything felt so good and I started to come and I squeezed and—and—he—he couldn’t—"
“Monkeys?” he asked abruptly, hoping to shift her to something slightly less distressing.
“—he—huh? Oh.” She...was Jane blushing? “It’s, um, it’s a slur, to be honest. It’s not a very nice term we use for humans. One of my eighteen million bad habits.”
“I’ve never been able to keep up with slang and will not start now,” he announced, and was happy to see her tentative smile. “And Jane, dearest, it was obviously an accident." Had she broken the boy's ribs? Had they been in a precarious position, and had fallen, and perhaps the boy had been badly hurt? Whatever had happened, he was certain of one thing. "You didn't mean to hurt him. You never would have hurt someone you cared about. You've got to let this go."
“How can I let it go? He’s still in a wheelchair.”
“Did he think you did it on purpose?”
“...no.”
“You’re helping him out?”
“Michael—my boss—he did, he settled with the family. Bob didn’t remember what happened, so we made up a story about an accident at the hotel. Like we were goofing around on the stairs and he fell and landed wrong. That’s what they think happened.”
“But you know different.”
“But I know different. Everybody knows different,” she added bitterly. “In the Pack.”
So she had coped with her guilt and shame by isolating herself, but her loneliness had only fed those emotions, along with a healthy dose of resentment. “I’m so sorry, Jane.”
“I can barely even look at Michael and the gang sometimes. They all know what I did out of horniness and stupidity. It’s so hard to go back and face them.” She shivered in his arms.
“They wouldn’t dare judge you.” They had better not. “It was obviously a fluke. I’m sure your family knows that. I think even the boy—Bob—knows that. That it was a one in a million chance.”
Unless she really was a werewolf. She said her family had warned her. She said ‘monkeys are fragile’. She said her Pack had to cover it up because ordinary young women do not accidentally put their lovers in wheelcha—
He shoved that thought away, hard. If Jane had been telling the truth, that would force him to question everything about their time together, everything about her...and about him. And he wouldn’t do that, because the result would be unthinkable.
There was a coward in the room, to be sure, but it wasn’t Jane.
He’d been stroking her back while they talked and she finally relaxed against him. He added, hoping to see a scowl, "And you must know you needn’t worry about such things with me. You could shatter my pelvis while you were having your way with me, and I'd be fine the next day.”
She jerked up on one elbow and stared at him. Her eyes were smudged with tears, bloodshot and enormous. "That's right," she said, looking thoughtful and gorgeous. "I was thinking about that last night and you...I can't hurt you.”
“Well, when you called me a ‘strutting shitstained cocksore’, that stung a bit,” he admitted.
She ignored his attempt at levity. “You can take whatever I dish out."
"And have been," he replied, "for several days now. Look." He showed her his arm where, in her agitation, she'd clawed off ribbons of skin. It had already healed.
She was still staring at him as if she'd never seen him before, then touched his arm, marveling at the faded marks. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before, Dick. Before today, I mean."
"You've had other things on your mind, my dearest.”
“Don’t call me that.” But the reply was automatic, and lacked heat.
“As you wish, my darling." That earned him an eye-roll and he’d never been so glad to see one. He rolled out of bed and stood, casting about for a way to distract her. "How about sushi and perhaps some shrimp tempura with chawanmushi for breakfast and cake?"
She was wiping the tears off her face but now looked up, eyes narrowed. “Fuck’s sake, Dick. I’m not a little kid, you can’t just soothe me with food and make everything all better.”
Point. “I apologize.”
“Glad we cleared that up.” A pause. Then: “What kind of cake?”
“Chocolate with strawberry buttercream.”
“Well. Okay.” She threw back the blankets and stood. “This one time I’ll let you distract me. But it’s not gonna work every time.”
“One time is all I need.” It was true. And he tried not to read too much into what she had just said. Because if he dared think ‘it’s not gonna work every time’ meant she’d be around for a while, that would only raise foolish hopes doomed to be dashed.