Chapter Fifteen

“Hey, beautiful. How’s girls’ night?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

Well, Trace had one answer already, based on her soft, slightly slurry voice. Girls’ night involved drinks. Or… A new suspicion set in, and he sat up in his hotel room bed. “Did Bridget smoke something in the hot tub, by any chance?”

“Nooo. We had wine. Much, much wine.”

“Yep.” He leaned back against his pillow and got comfortable. “I’m picking up on that fact.”

“Are you psychic?”

“Not even a little. I knew it was you when I answered because I recognized your number, and I can tell you’ve had wine because you sound a teensy bit wasted.”

Her sigh jostled, as if she’d just flopped down on a bed. “I plead guilty to teensy bit wasted. It’s Bridget’s fault. Maybe Lilah’s. I really don’t know who kept refilling my wine.”

Which meant she could be in store for some real misery tomorrow morning. “There’s some Advil in the cabinet in my bathroom. You might want to take a couple and get yourself a big glass of water before you go to sleep.”

“Done and done. Bridget took care of it. Your bedroom is really”—hic—“nice.”

He closed his eyes and pictured her there, lying across his bed like a sexy centerfold against the rather ordinary background of his dark blue comforter.

Blood raced to his cock and the sheet covering his waist tented. Realizing he pictured her in the pink panties and matching bra she’d had on the morning of the infamous goose attack, he felt compelled to ask the clichéd question. “What are you wearing?”

“Hmm?” The word went long and drawn out, and he imagined her stretching like a kitten. “Um…nothing. Just your sheets. I’m fresh out of your shower. I hope you don’t mind.”

Shower-damp and naked in his bed? He adjusted the picture in his mind as his body tightened and his throat went dry. Through it, he managed to say, “Not at all.”

“Mmm. It smells like you.” Hic. “The bed.”

“Hey, Izzy?”

“Yes?”

“By the time we’re done here, it’s going to smell like you. Like your perfume. And your body lotion. And your orgasm.” He wrapped his fist around his cock.

“Is it time for my bedtime story?”

He laughed. “Oh, yeah. If you’re game, I’m game.”

“I’m”—hic—“game.”

“You’re game?”

“Uh-huh. Yes. Very game.”

The slightly shameful excitement in her hushed voice really worked his shit. “Did you research this?”

“Yes. It’s probably wrong, but not specifically restricted because there’s no actual sexual touching. It’s a gray area.”

“But it feels a little wrong to you? A little naughty?”

“It does.” She giggled. An honest-to-God, spine tingling, cock-torturing giggle. “I should be punished.”

“Would you like me to punish you?” Had any words ever flown from his mouth faster?

“C-Could you? How?” The intrigue in her reply sealed it for him. He could. He would.

“How’s your imagination, Isabelle?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

He closed his eyes to block out his lonely, beige box of a hotel room and pictured her stretched across his sheets. Golden skin, parted lips, sultry eyes. Although he’d seen her in skimpy underwear, the circumstances hadn’t been relaxed and sexy. There was so much of her he hadn’t actually seen. He didn’t want to superimpose anything on Izzy. He wanted her.

Her heart-shaped ass in the pink thong—that memory would stay with him until his dying day and now it was bare in his bed. “Should I spank you? Would that be appropriate?”

“Oh, gosh. I think it might.”

“Roll over, Isabelle. Roll onto your stomach and put that pretty ass where I can see it.”

He heard the groan of his mattress, the puff of her breath as she complied. “I’m over.”

“No covers.”

“None. It’s a bit cold.”

He heard the complaint in her tone. He envisioned her there, little goose bumps rising on smooth, tan skin more accustomed to sunshine than cool air. Contemplating the imaginary view, he decided he wanted an elevated target. “You see my pillows?”

“Uh-huh. They’re big.”

“Take one of those big pillows and put it under you. Prop your hips up for me.”

“Oh, um…” She bounced, she breathed. She moaned just a little. “Oh-kay.”

“Are you in position?

“Yes.”

“You like it?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Okay, Izzy, I’m taking your hand—your right hand—and guiding it. Move it with me.”

“Yes,” she replied quickly. Eagerly.

“Lay your palm over your ass cheek. Feel the heat of your palm. The cool smoothness of your skin. Do you feel it?” He did. He felt it like it was his hand on her. The hand on his cock tightened. His shaft throbbed.

“Your legs…together or parted?”

“Together,” she panted. “Demure.”

“Part them. Spread them wide.” He imagined her opening her thighs, broadening the target, leaving vulnerable parts exposed. Her pussy nestled against his pillow. He dragged his fist up his shaft, forcefully enough to jostle his balls against his thighs.

“All right, Isabelle, bring your palm down on your cheek. Hard enough that I can hear it, or you’ll have to do it again. It might hurt a little. You might have to whimper,” he suggested, just in case her imagination got sluggish after too much wine. He needn’t have worried. If anything, she spanked herself too enthusiastically. He heard the sharp impact of palm to flesh, heard her quick, uneven inhale.

“Baby, you okay?”

“God, Trace, I wish you were here.”

“I wish I was there too, Izzy. What would I do to you if I was there?”

“You…um…I can’t believe I’m going to say this. Your dick. You would take hold of that big, hard dick and you would…spank me with it.”

Holy shit, he was going to come in his fist. But this, too, made a strange amount of sense, given she hadn’t actually seen him naked but probably had a decent sense of the size of his equipment based on the times she’d had it pressed against her. It warmed his heart that she wanted a scenario that didn’t require her to fill in too many blanks with her imagination. “Spank you with my dick?”

“Not just my backside. My legs are apart, so you would make me come up on my knees and you would…you know…”

He didn’t. “Tell me.”

“You would spank all between my thighs. Low, by my knees. In the soft middle part where it might leave a red mark, and all the way to my…my…”

He stroked himself harder and faster as he imagined it. “Your pussy?”

“Yes.” The word was a gasp. “You’d spank my pussy but not for long, because you’d know…even though I tried to cover it up…you’d know how much I secretly liked it. By the way I sounded. By the way I moved. You’d continue on, slap my butt—both cheeks—leave the hint of an imprint on both, and then go back between my thighs.”

Ah, Jesus. He wasn’t going to last another minute. “This whole time”—he cupped his balls hard—“this whole time I’m working on you, are you grinding on my pillow?”

“God, yes. I am. Sorry.”

“No sorry. Listen, Isabelle. Listen closely. I’m going cock-whip you, and then you’re going to lift that ass so I can cock-slap your very wet, very hot pussy. When it gets to be too much for you, grind on the pillow until you get some relief. When you’re ready for more, lift up and I’ll give you more.”

“Oh God,” she breathed. “Oh, God. Trace?”

“What baby? What do you need?” He worked himself with brutal efficiency while he pictured her positioned below him, ass lifted and dancing as he whipped his way up between her legs. He heard the wet smack of his abused dick against her smooth, yielding skin, the fluttery sounds of her quick inhales and whimpering exhales.

“Nothing. Nothing. Just…this isn’t going to take long.” Her voice trailed off into a little moan, and then, “I’m coming. I’m coming. It’s so strong, so much…”

He locked his jaw and watched her in his mind’s eye while he used both hands on himself. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Come on my pillow. Drench it. The next time I bury my face there, I want to breathe in the scent of you.”

“Oh…oh…oh…ohhhhh…”

Those desperate little noises sent him over. For long moments he fell into a world consisting solely of his burning lungs, his firing muscles, and the beautiful agony of his orgasm rushing into him, through him, out of him like a lightning bolt of pure pleasure.

“Christ,” he finally muttered. Every muscle in his body released. He sagged back against the mattress. Since when had jacking off left him so thoroughly wrung out? Even his mouth was dry.

And still, spent as he was, his body ached to be with her for real. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Izzy?”

“Uh-huh?” Her voice was very thick now. He imagined her nestled in his bed, cheek snuggled to a pillow, eyelids drooping as she basked in the afterglow.

“Did you enjoy your bedtime story?”

“Mmm-hmm. You?”

He looked down his body and laughed. “Yeah, you could say that. Do me a favor, okay?”

“Hmm…”

“Don’t rush off tomorrow. Wait for me to get there. There’s more to our story. Stay, so I can show you.”

“Uh-huh. Wait.” Her voice sounded far away. He was losing her. “Tomorrow—” a yawn interrupted her meandering words—“have to ask you…something.”

Possible topics paraded through his mind. Would you kindly coax an orgasm out of me with your tongue? After that, would you mind, terribly, if I straddled your lap and had myself a rodeo while you devoured my tits? “Anything. You can ask me anything. Sweet dreams, Izzy. Remember to wait for me.”

“I’m waiting…”

…

Thank God for steady tailwinds. Trace set an air speed record flying Lenna and Tom home from Anchorage. And thank God for redeye flights, which left his normally energetic operations manager too tired to argue when he declined their offer to buy him breakfast. She could thank him for flying them home another day. And last, but not least, thank God for Wing, who kept the engine of the circa 1992 Captivity Air Land Rover—and transport of last resort—growling so he could drop them off at their place and head straight home.

Trace offered up one last thanks when he pulled to the top of the driveway in time to wave at Lilah, who was backing her red Jeep out of the garage. She stopped by the Rover and lowered her passenger side window. He lowered his window as well. “Did Bridge leave for Juneau?”

“A couple hours ago,” Lilah confirmed. “Key’s been fed and walked.” A faint smile played across her lips. “Izzy’s still asleep, I think.”

“I heard you girls had a fun night.”

Her smile grew into something slightly smug and…knowing. “Well, I slept down the hall from Izzy, and from what I heard, you had a fun night, too.”

Oh, damn. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, which was suddenly hot. Had he and Izzy accidentally corrupted young, innocent Lilah? “I, uh, think maybe you overheard Izzy watching a movie or something. One of those movies you’re too young to see.”

Her laugh said she wasn’t buying it. “I’m old enough to get into any movie these days. But if it was a movie, it must have been a really good one. I think Izzy would give it five stars. Bye, Trace.”

“Bye,” he murmured, then belatedly added, “Thanks for taking care of the dog,” as she drove away. When, he wondered, had little Lilah Iquat gotten old enough to see X-rated movies—or recognize phone sex when she heard it?

Time marched on, apparently, whether one paid attention or not. Maybe he’d been too deep into his own world, his own thoughts, for the last few months, but it felt like his eyes were slowly opening now. Not just opening but seeing beyond a fog of grief and regret—and some really disquieting dreamlike encounters he hoped not to repeat—to focus on other things. Things like change. Things like the future. Things like the woman upstairs, asleep in his bed.

That got his blood fired up again. He left the Rover out front, grabbed his coat and go-bag, and ran through the drizzle to the side door, unsurprised to find it unlocked. Half the locals never locked a house or a car. During the off-season, crime in Captivity consisted mainly of petty misdemeanors or altercations arising from drunk decision-making, but in that case, generally the kind of thing the people involved saw coming.

Key ran to the door as soon as his hand touched the knob and broke into a barking exuberance Bridget called The Long-Lost Reunion. There you are! Where have you been? You’ve been gone forever! I have missed you! Pet me now!

Trace pushed the door open and quickly shut it behind him, before kneeling and rubbing the ecstatic animal from ears to flanks. “Shh. Quiet, Key. Izzy’s sleeping.”

Key took it down a notch and turned in a circle. Izzy’s here! You’re here! We’re all here!

“Shh,” he repeated, and got to his feet. “Come on.” The dog followed him to the kitchen, tap-dancing around his feet when Trace opened the pantry door where they kept the treats. He snagged two from the bag and held them up. “Bed.”

Key gave an excited whine, but padded over to his bed, got in, did his obligatory series of circles to get the stuffing precisely how he wanted it, and then lay down.

“Good boy.” Trace held out one of the treats so Key could take it directly from his hand. The other he tucked by the dog’s front paws. Giving his big, white head one last pat, he muttered, “Stay.” After washing his hands at the sink, he headed out of the kitchen.

Halfway up the stairs he could tell that despite Key’s barking, Izzy remained asleep. The quiet stillness coming from the second floor ran too deep. Izzy, awake, tended to be in a state of motion. Even sitting at his desk in his office at the airfield, working, her restless energy found small escapes. She bounced a leg, swung a foot, or fiddled a pen between her fingers if they weren’t flying over her keyboard. The thought of waking her slowly and channeling all her energy into a sweaty pursuit of mutual satisfaction had him quickening his pace.

He winced at the squeak of hinges when he opened his bedroom door, but the form under his comforter didn’t move. He winced again at the slightly less pronounced squeak when he closed the door, but it had to be done. A man didn’t want to get interrupted by a 127 pound husky when deeply engaged in certain activities.

After silently dropping his bag and coat on a chair in a corner of the room, he walked over to the bed. And grinned. Izzy wasn’t just buried under his comforter, she was wrapped in it, burrito-style. Only her head peeked out—a cameo-worthy profile snuggled against a pillow and a long flow of dark waves cascading across blue plaid sheets. Flannel sheets. The kind his mother would have called “the good sheets.” The detail fanned the flame of affection he felt for his sister. She’d taken some pains to make the place nice for Izzy.

He’d take pains to make it even nicer, assuming he got her buy-in. And if he didn’t, well, she’d likely start her morning watching a grown man cry. Kneeling to bring his face close to hers, he ran his fingers through the hair at her temple, brushing it back from her face. “Isabelle?”

“Nuh…” Her brows scrunched. She snuggled deeper into the comforter and pressed her face into the pillow. It shouldn’t have been sexy, but for some reason, it was. Or maybe it was the idea of unbundling her from the blankets to find her warm and naked, and, if he woke her properly, ready for him. He traced the curve of her upper lip to the corner, then down the slope of her lower lip.

They parted on a soft sigh, so he smoothed the pad of his thumb over the velvety fullness of her lower lip. “Izzy?”

She shifted onto her side. Dark lashes fluttered. Unable to resist, he swept a fingertip along the line of her lashes, capturing the tickle of the feather-light caress. He moved on to stroke the rise of her cheekbone, watching as one sleepy brown eye opened, then the other. “Hey…” Sleep made her voice extra husky. “You’re home. I guess I slept in.”

“I’m just a figment of your subconscious. It’s early. You’re still asleep, and you’re having another one of those naked Trace dreams that get you all hot and bothered when you wake up.”

Her lips twitched, which he took as a good sign. “You know about those, huh?”

“I do. I’m painfully familiar with the naked Izzy version of those dreams.” He skimmed his fingers along the line of her jaw. “What should we do about them?”

Her eyes sobered. Her smile faded. “Probably nothing. We’re not on the phone telling bedtime stories anymore. This is real life.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed her number. A gentleman would take her words as a no. And he’d been raised right, but he couldn’t back off without at least trying to point out how stupid the damn rule was. Maybe not always, for all people, but right here, right now, between them? It created a fine line that made no sense to stay on one side of.

Her phone, screen-down on his nightstand, chimed.

Biting her lip, she looked at him. “Seriously?”

He jerked his head toward her phone.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, but reached a slender arm out of the blanket, picked up the phone, and answered, “You’re ridiculous. You know that, right?”

“These are your ridiculous rules, woman. I’m just trying to abide by them. You need to do this over the phone, no problem. Should I go to another room? Out to the car? How much yardage before it’s okay? Don’t laugh. I’m not joking. I’ll go the distance for you.”

Her smile turned gentle. Resigned rather than regretful, he liked to think. She reached out and place her hand against his cheek. “I…I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

Thank Christ for that. Hoping to encourage her to pick up where they’d left off yesterday, he reminded her, “Last night, before you went to sleep, you mentioned you had something you wanted to ask me today. Ask me, Izzy. Ask me anything.”