Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (24 page)

I tried to control my breathing, to relax, but I didn’t know where his cunning lips would land next. His sweet breath caressed my face. He made no further move to touch. Frustration building, I reached out, only to have his hands grasp mine.

“No touching yet.”

“Cruel.”

“Yep.”

My skin was so sensitized that sudden heat or cold would probably make me jump a yard. My heart thundered in my ears as I waited. Anticipated.

He released my hands. A cool breeze signaled that he’d moved away, beyond my reach. Metal squealed. The swoosh of running water startled me. I smelled the light odor of chlorine. More squeaks, then the hushed change of water pressure as Gage adjusted the temperature. A cloud of moist air tickled my ankles. Footsteps squished against the tiled floor. He took my hand and tugged me forward.

“I won’t let you fall,” he said.

The tiles beneath my feet changed, became warmer and smaller, and soon very wet. Hot water pooled around my toes. I splashed into it moments before the hot spray hit my bare skin. The shock took my breath away. Gage released my hand. I moved closer to the spray, allowing the needles of water to massage away the day’s stress. I turned. It coursed through my hair, soaking it to the scalp. I ignored my audience and reveled in the heat and steam; I couldn’t remember the last time a shower felt so wonderful.

“What is it? You made a face.”

I looked toward the sound of his voice, a little disoriented. It bounced off the walls and mixed with the hiss of the water. “I was just thinking I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Which part?”

“The shower.” But now that he mentioned it … “Any of this. It’s been a few—a while.”

He touched my shoulder, and I jumped. He pulled back, and all I knew was the rush of water streaming to the floor.

“Gage?”

“We don’t have to, if you’re not ready, Teresa.”

He was still giving me an out. Did I want him to stop after
we’d come so far? No. Not even a little bit. I wanted him here with me.

“Did you bring shampoo?” I asked by way of answer.

“Of course.”

A bottle found its way into my hand. I tested its size and shape and decided it was mine. “Conditioner?”

“What?”

“The matching bottle that should have been next to this one.”

A short pause and then, “I’m sorry, I just brought the shampoo.”

“I don’t care.” I reached out. He clasped my hand. “Help me do this?”

He took the bottle and spun me so I faced the spray. It hammered against my breasts and misted up into my face, creating more delicious sensations. I closed my blind eyes against the assault.

The familiar snap of the bottle cap preceded his hands in my hair. Fingers massaged my scalp, working the cool gel, down to the roots. From the top, across the sides to my temples, around to the middle and down to my neck. Over and over, a mesmerizing swirl of touch and scent as citrus permeated the air.

His hand touched my shoulder and directed me to turn. Hot water pounded against my scalp. It tingled; I throbbed. Who knew hair washing could be so damned erotic? He carefully rinsed the shampoo out and finger-combed the long strands. Never once did he pull or tug or hurt. The hair-dresser at Sally’s Scissors was never as gentle.

“One step forward,” he said.

The new position angled the water toward the middle of my back. Squelching sounds and another bottle snap—he was lathering something up. The scent of jasmine and vanilla joined the citrus.

“Turn around.”

I faced the spray, the water once again hitting my breasts and doing an excellent job of heightening my excitement. A washcloth pressed against my back. Gage rubbed the soapy terry rag in slow, circular patterns across my shoulders; lifted my hair to reach the back of my neck and trailed the rag down my right arm. I extended it without thought, allowing him to soap my elbow and hand. He took care to stroke each finger, my thumb and palm, and across the underside of my wrist.

The smooth cloth never broke contact with my skin as it whispered back across my shoulders and repeated the gentle ministrations on my left arm. I panted, unable to take a proper breath, overwhelmed by desire and his massaging touch. Steam billowed into my face. The rag snaked across my back, and then up and down, soapy terry cloth caressing each rib and vertebrae. He gently swept across the small of my back, and then the cloth disappeared. My body ached for his touch. Lost without the grounding influence, I thought I would fall off the edge of the earth.

“More soap,” he said.

I waited, my washed skin tingling and the unwashed left wanting. Tiny tremors stole through my abdomen. I clenched my fists and shifted from foot to foot. I wanted—
needed—to touch him. Or myself. Something. No touching, he had said. It was torture of the most exquisite kind, and I trusted Gage implicitly. I just needed some sort of release before I combusted.

He started again with my left ankle, soaping each toe, tickling the sole, up and down my calf. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling when he washed my knee. With precise movements, he stroked my thigh, his hand rising so close, but never to the right place. My hips jerked, daring him to touch the one spot he studiously avoided. He laughed; I loved that sound.

His hand brushed the crease where my butt met my leg, and I trembled. Ached for him. He switched to my right leg, repeating the careful, torturous motions, from toes to thigh. The sweet ache inside me coiled tighter with every brush of cloth on skin, until I thought I might burst. My lungs hitched. I felt ready to fly to pieces.

One deliberate stroke of the rag scorched down my buttocks, top to bottom. I clenched my inner muscles as tremor after tremor of pleasure surged through me, so fast and sharp that my upper body jerked. I cried out at the sudden, unexpected release. Tipping forward, I pressed my palms against the wall. It passed quickly, but left me breathless, my body trembling for more.

“Teresa?”

I inhaled deeply, my mind reeling. “That was incredible.”

“Did you just—?”

“Yep.” I straightened and turned toward the sound of his voice, expressing what I hoped was an appropriate amount
of awe. I couldn’t seem to command my muscles properly. “I have never orgasmed without … you know, touching.”

“I’d say there was plenty of touching involved.” I could hear the smile in his voice, pride in his accomplishment.

“Yeah, but for the most part it was appropriate touching. Don’t you want to see how inappropriate we can get?”

“We haven’t even finished your shower.”

“Don’t care.”

His hands brushed my cheeks and I pressed into his touch, desperate to see what was in his eyes. Etched on his face. “You’re sure?”

Half of me hated that our first time was about to be standing up, in a shower, probably somewhat awkward with me blinded by my own powers. The other half didn’t care—craved it, in fact. It had been too long since I’d let myself go, too many years spent bottled up and closed off. I needed the connection, and I wanted it to be with him.

I said, “As I’ve ever been about anything, Gage,” and deliberately drew my tongue across my lips.

The bait worked. His arms were around my waist, and then my back was pressed against the cool tile wall. He captured my mouth in a dizzying kiss, and I returned his eagerness, falling into the heady taste of him. My senses were sharper than I’d ever known. Keener, taking in every detail of smell and sound, memorizing by touch what I couldn’t have by sight. His left hand traveled down my right hip and lifted my leg. I reached between us, and he hissed when I touched him. Stroked him. Helped him ease inside.

I gasped as sensation after delicious sensation poured
through me, stroking already hypersensitized nerves. I tried imagining his face, mouth open and panting. Silver-flecked eyes looking into mine, cheeks red from exertion. Water trickling down the line of his chiseled jaw, across his throat, and dripping down onto his heaving chest—so clear in my mind.

Blazing heat spread throughout my body, and we kissed again, our dueling tongues matching his powerful strokes. Nothing existed except our gasping lungs and pounding hearts—creating a spellbinding rhythm that drowned out every other sound. Colorful spots interrupted the veil of purple across my vision and blended into a painter’s palette. Joy bubbled up, frothed with bliss and, at last, shattered on the surface.

I cried out as tremors blasted through my body, from my stomach to my breasts, the top of my head to the tips of my toes. My trembling legs slipped. Gage withdrew. Groaned. Warmth hit my belly and was washed away by the shower’s stream. Strong arms looped around my waist. I gratefully collapsed against his chest, resting my head on his shoulder. His fingertips tickled my lower back, tracing strange patterns. After a moment, I giggled; I must have had tile marks on my skin.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. That was … great. Besides, tile tattoos on the ass are sexy.”

He laughed and swept me into another sensual kiss. I couldn’t imagine ever tiring of the taste of him on me and the scent of him around me.

“Come on,” he said, kissing my nose and mouth, and pulling
me back toward the shower spray. “Let’s finish before we both prune.”

The evening (morning?) ended in my room, both of us clean, in our pajamas—well, boxers for him and a long T-shirt for me—and well satisfied. We had stretched out on my bed, his chest pressed to my back and our legs twined. Gage pushed my damp hair out of the way and planted gentle kisses on the nape of my neck. My insides trembled, my legs were jelly, and I never wanted to move.

“I just realized something,” he said as I was about to doze off, his breath hot on my ear.

I blinked sleepily, wondering vaguely if the purple veil was more translucent than a few minutes ago. “What’s that?”

“We’ll have to do this all over again when you get your sight back.”

“I don’t know, Gage, maybe next time you should blindfold yourself to make it fair.”

“Getting kinky already?”

“Maybe.”

He chuckled, tightening his arms around my waist. I closed my eyes and focused on the beat of his heart against my back.

“The others will be awake in a few hours,” I murmured, knowing I should do something about that. Have a plan ready, or get dressed. Something.

“We’ve got time, Teresa. Get some rest.”

“’Kay.” And I did.

I
watch her sleep as before. She and her faceless companion. She is sweating, and I know why. The room is hot. Too hot. I smell something awful, dangerous, and I cannot warn her.

Her companion is engulfed in flames. She knows he is dying, cursing someone for it, though he cannot speak. Their minds are linked, as they have always been.

Who did this?

They don’t answer.

Her eyelids fly open. Luminescent eyes stare in hatred and accusation. Not at me. Through me.

Someone is killing them. Two dead by fire.

Murdered.

Flames surround me now, as well. Flames of color and light, of a thousand voices singing, of power beyond measure.

I burn.

This time I didn’t fly out of bed when I woke up. The memory of burning heat still lingered as I stared at the ceiling. The
light was off and only a sliver of morning sunlight peeked in through the pulled window shade. Gage still slept behind me, arms around my waist.

I blinked hard. Morning sunlight. I sat up, the nightmare forgotten. Gage grunted; I ignored him.

It was gone. Not even a tinge of violet remained in my vision—only the golden shaft of light drawn across the floor like a beacon of hope.

“Teresa?”

He touched my shoulder. With a gleeful laugh, I twisted around and tackled him to the mattress. I straddled him and gazed into his gorgeous eyes. Eyes I’d missed.

“I see you,” I said.

Gage brushed a curtain of purple-streaked hair away from my face and drew me down. I hovered above him, grinning like a fool as he studied my eyes.

“Wow,” he said.

“Yeah, wow. Dr. Seward won’t believe this when we tell him.”

“What do we tell him?”

“Easy.” I leaned forward, hair brushing my cheeks. “We tell him you figured out how to clean my filter.”

I dissolved into giggles, overcome by the euphoria of having my sight back. Gage hooked his arms behind my knees, sat up fast, and effectively completed a maneuver that landed me flat on my back. He loomed above, laughing along with me, and I got my first real look at the damage done yesterday afternoon. From his throat to his belly button and across both pectorals, a pool of bruising marred his
skin. Shades of black, blue, and purple ran like a chalk drawing left in the rain.

“Christ, Gage,” I said.

“It’s fine.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A little. The painkillers wore off a few hours ago.” He took my hand and pressed it lightly above his heart. “It’s okay, Teresa.”

“It’s not.” The joy of my returned eyesight diminished with the clarity it brought. Half of our team had been seriously hurt yesterday, and they were looking at me to lead. I couldn’t keep distracting myself with Gage. My feelings for him were as mixed up as his for me. He wouldn’t open up about his past, and yet he’d eagerly engaged in our affair.

Unfortunately, a deeper examination of “us” had to wait until we’d removed Specter as a threat. I had to focus on that and nothing else.

“I should go see Dr. Seward,” I said. “Then talk to the others.”

“About anything in particular?”

I hadn’t told anyone about my dreams, but tonight’s had unnerved me. More than just the recurring events and new hints each night, I thought I could connect the dream to a newspaper headline I’d glanced at in Bakersfield last week, one of those things I saw without truly comprehending it. Two dead in a fire, cause unknown. The timing could not be a coincidence.

“Teresa, what is it?”

“Can you do some research for me this morning?”

“Yeah, I suppose. On what?”

I told him, and he listened without interrupting—without expression, too, which worried me. If he was angry that I’d kept this from him, I couldn’t tell. “I’ll get anything I can on the facility and investigation,” he said after a blank-faced silence.