Werewulf Journals 3: Hungry Pleasures (6 page)

It had been so long since she’d done anything so drastic. She’d thought herself on the other side of all that. Now, bile burning at the back of her throat, she fearfully checked over her body in the mirror. Please, God, don’t let me have cut or gouged myself.

Kaila sagged against the sink in relief, pulse hammering at her temple. Nothing…thank God!

Her stomach finally rebelled. Staggering over, she sank to her knees in front of the

toilet and held onto the rim with sheer desperation as she gave up the night’s excess.

Finished, she scrubbed her face, sat on the closed lid, and wept.

In the beginning, when she was eighteen or so, the bouts had been more frequent and

more violent. Almost daily, she’d wake to find blood staining the sheets, deep cuts on her arms and legs from where she’d gouged her skin, seeking to bleed out the pain of her self-hatred. She hadn’t done anything like that for years, but the possibility lurked just over her shoulder, gibbered its threats in her ears whenever she let down her guard.

The problem was as complex as it was tragic. At the same time it was very simple.

Support groups were no help, at least not for her. She’d joined plenty of eating disorder self-help groups over the years to no avail, but she didn’t blame the people who’d tried to reach her through the years. Until she opened up and shared the experience that had scarred her, no group therapy would be able to help. So far, she’d been unable to open up.

She couldn’t quite remember what the trauma had been.

Whatever had happened in her past needed confronting -- she knew that. All the

doctors and psychiatrists said so. Unfortunately, the particulars kept slipping away from her faster than she could creep up on them.

A swirling black cloud of fear and pain hovered over the last half of her senior year.

With difficulty, she could recall snippets, yet whenever she pushed at her mental barrier, 28 Camille Anthony

searching for more information, blinding migraine headaches blasted away at her temples and stilettos of agony stabbed into her pupils.

Every doctor she’d visited had warned her not to push. The brain was a marvelous

instrument, they said, assuring her that, when she was ready to cope with the trauma, the information would be there for her to retrieve.

She sat on the toilet seat a long time before mopping her tears and gathering the energy to bathe. The rank smell of her own sweat and lingering reminder of her sacrifice to the god of the toilet got her moving.

Kaila stepped into the shower and turned the water on, setting the temperature to

scalding hot. Leaning against the tiled wall, she lifted her face to the spray, too dejected to do anything more than allow the water to pound her body.

Wishing she could wash away her excess pounds as easily as she banished the stink of

fear, she scrubbed every inch of her skin, scouring until the dark flesh glowed with an underlying pink hue. She shampooed and rinsed her unruly hair, noting it was time for another perm. Her hair had grown out until there was very little curl and a whole lot of kinky. She shut the water off and toweled dry, stepped over to the sink to pamper her tangled mop with a hot oil treatment.

Damp hair wrapped in a towel, Kaila slipped right into her practiced, post-depression routine. First, she put on her cleaning outfit, an old sweatshirt and a pair of cut-off jeans that had seen better days. Then she cleaned her bedroom from top to bottom, stripped the sheets off the bed, and tossed them into the washing machine with the rest of the dirty clothes.

Once she got that load going, she scrubbed the kitchen cabinets and scoured the oven. Next, she mopped and waxed the linoleum floor. When she finished with the preliminaries, she moved on to the heavy stuff.

Strenuous activity always helped her in the aftermath of a binge session. Today was no different. Three hours later Kaila felt loads better emotionally. The entire house shone with cleanliness, and the scent of lemon permeated every room.

Her light brown skin glowed with a healthy sheen of sweat as she cleaned her front

room floor. The tile in her entryway was Italian, shipped all the way from Tuscany…and bought at deep discount from Home Depot. It had to be hand washed with a vinegar and water mix and then dried with a soft cloth to prevent streaking. The parlor, last on her list of cleaning chores, was halfway finished when the door chimes sounded, startling her out of a deep cleaning fugue.

Kaila put a hand to the small of her back and stiffly straightened up. Grateful for the break, she reached up, unwrapping the thick terrycloth towel from around her head to let her corkscrew curls bounce free around her damp forehead. Running both hands through

her curls, she fluffed and lifted them and instantly, the damp hair cooled her sweaty skin, provided a much needed relief from the heat she’d worked up toiling in the warmth of the late spring sun.

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She grimaced as she climbed to her feet, wondering who would be knocking on her

door at two p.m. on a bright Saturday afternoon. She wasn’t expecting her brothers and all her friends knew never to bother her with visits once she turned her cell phone off. Besides, they all shied away on housecleaning days. She wasn’t a bit averse to making them roll up their sleeves and help.

She thought about running upstairs to her room and putting on a bra and some decent

clothes. She vetoed that, deciding not to keep whomever it was waiting on the doorstep so long. Pulling her loose sweatshirt down around her hips, she hunched her shoulders a bit, hoping her visitor didn’t take up too much time. With luck, they’d never notice her bra-less state.

“Be right with you,” she yelled. She took two steps and then stopped to tug the legs of her cut-offs down from where they’d crawled up her thighs while she was on her knees

scrubbing. As she drew nearer the door, the shadowy figure of a man became visible through the glassed portion. A sniggle of unease swam through her. She lived in a nice neighborhood, but she didn’t take chances. She slowed, detoured to the front closet and hefted her

aluminum baseball bat.

“Yes? Who is it?” She raised her voice so it would be audible through the door.

“Miss Morgan? I am Rickard Orloffberg. We have not been formally introduced.

Nevertheless, I believe we qualify as…informal acquaintances. I would appreciate a few moments of your time.”

Who the hell is Rickard Orloffberg? And why does that name sound familiar? “I’m not

dressed for company, Mr. Orloffberg. Could you come back at a later time?”

“Unfortunately, my time is extremely limited as I must leave for Europe in under six

hours.”

Why does the voice sound familiar?

Totally intrigued, she sat her bat aside and reached for the two locks on the door,

twisted them open. “Sorry for my appearance. I was in the middle of cleaning and --” Her voice trailed off as the man turned and smiled down at her.

Holy shit!

She recognized him immediately as the slighter, taller businessman from the

restaurant -- the one who had called Pavel honey, baby, and other love names.

In broad daylight, with the sun streaming down on his frost-white locks, highlighting his silvery blue eyes, the man was magnificent! Unlike most white men, he had full, sexy

“kiss me!” lips and a body that screamed decadent carnal delights.

Kaila swallowed hard and had to remember to breathe. She stepped back to allow him

entrance.

“You’re no plain ‘mister’,” she accused, ushering him into the living room, “but please, come in…” Her hand swept a welcome into her living room. Thank goodness, she’d cleaned 30 Camille Anthony

that first. She, herself, might not be up to par, but her house was pristine clean and shining, smelling of springtime freshness.

“Thank you, Miss Morgan. Hopefully, this won’t take long.” He brushed past her,

slowed, let his body touch hers at breasts and belly. “Do you remember me?”

As if anyone could forget him having once laid eyes upon him! “You were at the

restaurant last month…oh yes, I remember you. Please have a seat.” She indicated the cream loveseat, strewn with throw pillows in every vibrant, primary shade. Her lips tightened when he ignored her and settled regally on the oversized matching chair.

Glaring at him, she took the loveseat, sitting as far away from him as possible. She

might be inexperienced where men were concerned, but something -- some aura of danger emanating from him -- warned her to keep her distance. Space between them was good.

“Why are you here?”

The man settled himself amidst the cushions, looking assured and at ease. Kaila realized the rarity of that. Most men found themselves uncomfortable surrounded by feminine

things, in a feminine atmosphere. This man looked in command. His eyes sparkled, the

expression in their crystalline depths one of assessment and humor. “You may recall the conversation you overheard between my companion and me…?”

“Pavel,” she said, voice tripping over the name. She cleared her throat. “You called him Pavel.”

His eyes lit up. Just as quickly, he banked the fires within them, his expression

returning to one of neutrality. “Actually, I called him many things, but yes, his name is Pavel Janecek -- a beloved friend as well as business associate. We were discussing our latest venture, Sated Pleasures.”

Sated Pleasures! The name, spoken in his gravelly tones, exploded on her senses.

Loaded with layer upon layer of sexual nuances, the name suggested so much. She forgot her bra-less state and sat forward, uncrossing her arms. Her fingers dug into the thick padded arm of her small sofa as arousal roared through her, igniting first in her frontal lobe and then sweeping through the rest of her body on a tidal wave of heat. Her nipples beaded.

One of the busiest designers in the ad firm she worked for, Kaila was considered adroit at turning a phrase, but knew she’d never have thought up something like this in a million years. Whoever had come up with the title was brilliant. She’d always been a quick study at nuances and could understand the implications in the title…could see the allusion to the deeper meaning.

Sated Pleasures! Oh yeah, it worked. In fact, in her case, maybe it worked too well. Her clit throbbed like a metronome, pounding with the beat of her excited pulse. Kaila licked her lips, swallowed hard. “Oh God,” she murmured, squeezing her thighs tightly together, trying to control her runaway body. The name, alone, had her creaming.

“Oh, my God…” she whispered, squirming on the cushion.

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Orloffberg’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she heard him croon almost under his breath. “You

are quite perfect.” Sitting forward, he smiled at her, his pale gaze roving over her form, noting -- she was sure -- her stiff nipples and accelerated pulse. “Why, Ms. Morgan, you are so very responsive, aren’t you? So sensitive to suggestion…”

His purred words shocked her out of the incipient orgasm. She sat back, shrank into

the depths of her cushion-strewn loveseat. Feeling exposed and on display, she folded her arms protectively over her jutting nipples and gave her shorts a discreet tug before crossing her ankles. “Can we cut to the chase? Why are you here? What do you want with me, Mr.

Orloffberg?”

“First, I would love for you to call me Rickard, if you would. The title of ‘Mr.’ is not really correct, so we can do away with it.”

“I don’t know you and I don’t believe in being casual with someone I’m not acquainted with.”

Orloffberg’s lips tightened, his expressive gaze grew cold and hard as glacial ice. “In that case, correct etiquette dictates you address me as His Serene Highness, Prince Wagner Rupert Rickard Orloffberg or simply, Your Highness. Addressing a ruling head of state as

‘Mister’ is quite casual, wouldn’t you say?”

Kaila smothered a smile. Don’t like your commands being questioned, heh? Like I give

a rat’s ass.

She boldly locked gazes, meeting his eyes in the secure knowledge that, here in her

own home, she has as much claim to royalty as he…queen of her castle and all that.

“First of all, you’re not my Highness. Second, I saw your picture in Time magazine so I knew who you were, but since you introduced yourself as plain Rickard Orloffberg, I figured you didn’t want the title bandied about.”

“Well…”

“Shut up. I’m not finished!” She was just getting started. Oh yeah, she was mad, now.

Getting right in his face, she raised a forefinger and repeatedly stabbed him in the chest while letting him have it with her double barrel verbal shotgun. “Third and last, Mister High and Mighty Principality, what maggot crawled in your empty brain and convinced you to come up in my house throwing orders around? Last I checked, I am a free woman and you’d best think twice before you really piss me totally off!”

Blood high, temper soaring, Kaila swanned her neck, backed up, and pointed both

forefingers at him, thumbs cocked back. “Dude, check yo’self ’fore you wreck yo’self!”

Snapping both thumbs down simultaneously, she “shot” him, mouth making the silencer

gunshot sound. Pursing her lips, she blew imaginary smoke from her finger-guns. Mouth turned up in a tight curve, she gave him a smile that in no way conveyed she was happy to see him.

32 Camille Anthony

Complete and utter silence echoed between them. She couldn’t read the glint in his

ice-blue eyes, but she figured he had to be mad as a hatter. Then he smiled a true smile that stretched his lips, exposing his straight white teeth. His smile added warmth and friendliness to his austere expression, turning his already overwhelming good looks into devastating handsomeness.

Seated, he executed the neatest bow she had ever seen. “I salute you, Miss

Morgan…and applaud the correctness of following my hunch. I was right to seek you out.

You are no panderer.” His smile widened. “You are not afraid to speak your mind.” His eyes went incandescent, turned from frosty blue to deep cerulean. “I find a woman blessed with a strong personality…interesting --” He licked his lips, leaving a moist sheen along the generous curves. “-- in the extreme. So, too, does my friend, Pavel.”