Trace tossed the last broken rail into the wheelbarrow and stuffed the hammer through the loop in the tool belt he’d found in the barn. Null and Aiden were busying themselves poking sticks in a shallow mound of muddy dirt.
His stomach rumbled, and he pulled out his phone to check the time. It was almost eleven thirty. What time did they eat lunch around here?
“Twace! Twace! Look what I found!” Null darted toward him, holding a flat, brownish rock in his tiny hand.
“What’s that, little man?” He knelt and held his hand out, palm up.
Null placed his small treasure in his palm and beamed as if he’d found a lump of gold. “It’s an awwowhead.”
“So it is.” Trace rolled the arrowhead between his fingers, admiring it, reminded of his time with the Choctaw. “Do you know what kind of stone the Indians used to make arrowheads like this?” He held it out so Null could take it back.
“No.” The little boy squinted up at him.
Trace tapped the tip of his index finger on the arrowhead. “They used flint, or even a type of rock called obsidian, or another called chert, which contains fossils. Do you know what fossils are?”
“Like dinosaur bones?” Aiden said, joining them.
“Something like that, but the kinds of fossils in chert are smaller. Like seashells and bird bones.”
Null eyed his arrowhead as if searching for evidence of fossils. “Is this chewt?” He lifted his gaze questioningly to Trace’s again. It was adorable how his tiny mouth couldn’t handle the letter R, but someday he would grow out of that.
“I don’t think so. I think this is flint.”
Null examined the arrowhead again then looked up, beaming. “Wanna see my wock cowwection?” It seemed R wasn’t the only letter he had trouble with.
Before Trace could answer, Null grabbed his thumb and tugged him toward the main house as Aiden brought up the rear, never letting her brother get too far away from her.
The smell of corn chowder and garlic bread assaulted his nose as he followed Null inside. Mya was in the kitchen tending to the stove.
She turned, and her gaze swiftly inspected them as if she were in the habit of making sure no one tracked dirt inside. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
Null hardly slowed as he galloped through the kitchen. “Twace wants to see my wock cowwection.”
He shrugged helplessly as Aiden took his free hand and pulled him along.
Who could resist these two?
Mya grinned at him, shaking her head. “You’ve gone and done it now.”
“Done what?”
“Made two new best friends.” Her eyes sparkled as she suppressed a smile.
“Yeah, looks that way.” He nodded toward the soup pot. “Smells good.” He’d have to see if he could get the recipe.
Null stopped and faced him, tugging harder on his hand. “Come on, Twace!”
Mya held her finger over her mouth. “Sssshhh. You need to be quiet. Cordray’s sleeping.”
The beast actually slept?
Null hung his head. “Sowwy.”
Mya went back to stirring the soup. “Remember, quiet feet on the stairs. And only whispers.” She stepped back and checked inside the oven. “And don’t be too long. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes. So get washed up and hurry back.”
Lunch. Thank God. Trace’s stomach had been rumbling for the past hour.
Null yanked his hand again, pulled him through the dining room, the living room, and upstairs to a room outfitted with two small beds.
“Is this your room?” he said, feeling like Gandalf in Bilbo Baggins’ hobbit hole. Everything was so tiny.
Aiden opened a toy box under the window and pulled out a stuffed Pooh Bear as Null dropped to his knees and dragged a small plastic storage bin from under his bed.
“No. My woom is in the school.” Null gestured toward the backyard without looking up. “But Aidy and I take naps and play in hewe sometimes.” He popped the blue lid off the box and dropped it on the wooden floor.
“Sshh.” Trace placed his hand on the lid, quieting it. “Remember, Coco’s sleeping.”
Null’s wide eyes peered toward the door. “Sowwy.” Then his little hands dove into the box of rocks.
What an impressive collection. He had all kinds and sizes.
“This is my favowite.” Null held up what appeared to be an unremarkable, jagged rock, but when he turned it over, sparkles of fool’s gold covered the other side.
Trace reached inside the box and pulled out a small, shiny piece of what looked like rose quartz. “Where did you find this one?”
“In the gawden.”
“You know,” Trace said, sifting through the pile. “When I was a kid, I collected rocks, too.”
“You did?”
“Yep. I didn’t have as many as you do, though. I kept them in a leather pouch my father made for me.”
He smiled at the memory. His parents hadn’t been overtly compassionate, but they’d loved him. He knew that now, and remembering the small things his father did for him made him see things in a different light than he had at eight or ten or even twelve years old.
He should visit him, but he just wasn’t ready, especially now that he knew Brak was here. In time, though. He would visit them both when he felt ready.
Facing them wouldn’t be easy. He’d fucked things up. He was responsible for Mother’s death. He’d be lucky if his father hadn’t disowned him.
His eyes lit on a rock in the corner of Null’s box, half buried by the rest of his collection. He frowned. The rock looked familiar.
Slowly reaching in, he rolled the other rocks away and pulled out the one that looked similar to the one from his own childhood collection. His favorite. The one that Mason had tossed into the pond two centuries ago. The white quartz with the black flecks.
It wasn’t the same rock, but it easily could have come from the same place. That’s how similar Null’s was to his own.
“Where did you find this?”
Null lifted onto his knees and glanced into his palm. “Um, I think I found that one in the woods by the stweam.”
Aiden hopped to his side and stared at the rock. She nodded. “Uh-huh. It was by the stream. I remember.”
“Yeah.” Null nodded with his sister. “On the bank.” He rubbed his fingers back and forth over the rock’s surface.
“Were there more like this one?” Trace brushed his thumb over a concentration of tiny black specks.
Maybe he would never get his own rock back, but if he could at least replace it with one that was similar . . .
“Want me to take you thewe? We can look.” Null’s big blue eyes shone as he grinned up at him.
He closed his fist around the rock and nodded. “I’d like that, but we’ll probably need Coco’s permission first, huh? She runs a pretty tight ship.”
Aiden tilted her head and frowned. “What’s a tight ship?”
He had to remember he was talking to two-year-olds who weren’t yet familiar with such phrases. “Running a tight ship just means she likes order. That she likes everyone to be where they’re supposed to be and doing what they’re supposed to be doing. And if you’re going to do something else, you need to let her know.”
The frown lifted from Aiden’s face, and she nodded. “Uh-huh. Coco likes a tight ship.”
He chuckled. “I thought so.” He placed the rock back in Null’s box and bobbed his head toward the door. “So, are you two as hungry as I am?” He rubbed his belly.
Both nodded.
“Okay, then let’s go get cleaned up for lunch. I’m starved.”
Null and Aiden hopped up and darted for the door.
“You can sit next to me,” Null said. “I’ll save you a chaiow.”
“Sounds like a plan, little man.” He high-fived Null, and then the two kids skittered into the hall. A moment later, he heard their clumsy footsteps tumble down the stairs.
He might as well get cleaned up himself. Then after lunch, he’d get some sleep. He’d been up all night and was starting to feel it, especially after the time in King Bain’s dungeon had taken so much out of him.
His room had a private bathroom, so he hopped in the shower, quickly lathered up and rinsed, driven by his growling stomach to hurry the hell up and get back downstairs. A few minutes later, he changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt then left his room and started down the hall toward the stairs.
As he passed Cordray’s closed bedroom door, he slowed and inhaled. Her citrusy, midnight scent wafted into the hall.
God, if only he could bottle that shit, he could rub it all over his skin and get high on it anytime he needed a pick-me-up. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths. What was it about Cordray’s scent that was so intoxicating? It wasn’t like she smelled any different than other females, and yet . . . she did. Hundreds of women carried the sweet but citrus scent of oranges, but with Cordray, it was darker, lustier, more exciting.
He felt himself drift toward her door, and when he opened his eyes again, his hand was on the doorknob . . . and he was turning it. A force deep within him compelled him onward. He needed to get closer to her scent. To wrap it around him. To bathe in it. To revel in the way it washed through his senses and absorbed into skin.
As the latch released, warmth blossomed inside his chest, and tingles shimmied through his fingers.
He had no idea what this feeling was, but he liked it.
Once he’d opened the door, he stared transfixed at the tattooed female in the center of the bed, surrounded by a sea of red satin.
Cordray lay on her side, facing the door. Her black hair with its multihued blue streak covered half her face and spilled over the pillow.
Of course she would sleep on a blood-red bed. She probably fantasized that her sheets were her victims’ blood. After all, this was Cordray.
Lovely . . . breathtaking . . . exhilarating Cordray.
In sleep, she looked as peaceful as a napping kitten, her prickly armor shed, leaving only tranquility. All that serenity enveloped Trace like a cozy blanket made of rabbit’s fur. Soft and warm. Magnetic.
As if in a trance, he crossed the space between the door and the bed and knelt beside her. He placed his forearm on the mattress and rested his chin on it as he gingerly reached out with his other hand and caressed just the tips of her hair with his fingers.
Her hair was cool and felt like strands of silk.
Quiet calm wrapped around him. And something else. Something primal and urgent that ran starkly opposite from the calm energy taming his beast. Something that awakened his blood in such a pleasant, exciting way.
Her chest rose and fell evenly as she breathed. Then she shifted and murmured as if talking in her sleep.
Her lips parted, and a breathy moan that sounded almost sexual broke the stillness.
Whatever she was dreaming about, it sounded good.
She twisted and rolled so that she was partially on her back.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered sleepily, followed instantly by another moan. “Yesss.” The word trailed off on a drowsy sigh.
Her breathing deepened and intensified as subtle waves of hormonal heat pulsed from her body.
Trace’s cock stiffened, and he lifted his head off his arm, staring. Just staring.
In that moment, she was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, and he wanted more. Needed more. Would die if he didn’t get more.
Before he could stop himself, his mind penetrated hers, snapping in an instant to the image of him on top of her. She was dreaming about him. Him! And he was fucking her. Hard. And she liked it. She wanted it.
And then he was in his dream self, buried inside her.
For the love of God, this was more than just a wet dream. This was like an out of body experience, where his soul and hers had met up for a little nocturnal emissioning with one another.
Her scent invaded his senses. Her arms gripped him to her. Her legs locked his hammering hips in place.
“More, please more!”
And he wanted to give her more. He wanted to expend himself and fall into her body forever. God, she felt good. Hot, wet, tight.
She came again, digging her nails into the back of his shoulders as pleasure shredded her vocal chords.
Then shit got crazy.
As in crazy hot, crazy good, and crazy holy fuck!
Her fingers clawed at his bare back, her cries coming hard and fast as she fell into delirious spasms beneath his body, coming again and again, unable to stop. Cordray was a nympho. A wired-up bundle of unleashed orgasms he wanted to keep tapping into.
He thrust into her, shoving her legs apart with his knees, grabbing her arms and holding them against the bed, demanding with his clenching thrusts that she give him more. That she give him all of her. He would bleed every ounce of pleasure from her body. He would own her, possess her, claim her! She belonged to him!
As she blew apart yet again, his own climax crested, sweeping him away on a lava flow of molten delirium.
God, he’d never come so hard. So long. With such incredible intensity. He closed his eyes to savor the explosion happening between his legs and hers. Jesus, she was good. No. They were. They were good together. He was fire, and she was gasoline, and as she came again, another orgasm rocketed through his scrotum.
This was what he’d spent his whole life looking for. The one female who could put the smack down on his beast and keep it chained like she was a dragon tamer and it was a pussycat. A female who could arouse him in a way that no other female—or male—ever had.
Just . . . wham, bam, and holy-hell-oh-my-God-and-hallelujah thank you ma’am!
Cordray was the shit in bed!
He could get used to dreams like this. Fuck yeah.
Then the mood shifted. The atmosphere changed and it no longer felt like a dream.
“What the . . .?” Cordray’s sexed-up, sleep-infused voice reached him as if from a cave. “What the fuck?”
He peeled his eyes open. Something was way off here. She was awake. And under him. He had climbed on top of her.
Oh. Shit.
On a stick.
Her eyes opened wide, and she stared up at him like he was the Grim Reaper come to claim her soul.
His hips were between her thighs.
He was rocking himself against her, and she was doing the same to him.
And his cock was throbbing in his jeans.
And, oh fuck, he’d come. He’d fucking come for real, not just in her dream.
Jesus, this was bad.
Oil-spill-in-the-Gulf bad.
He stared down at her, his mind blank.
She stared up at him, mouth open, breathing hard. Then her stare turned into a glare. Then into invisible poisonous daggers.
“What the hell are you doing?” She shoved him off and jumped out of the bed, brushing her hands over her body as if she were covered in spiders. “How dare you! I can’t believe . . .” Her expression morphed into one of fear. “Oh my God, did we . . .? Did you . . .?” She stared in horror at the bed then looked down at her body as if to ensure she was still wearing clothes. Then her gaze hardened as it met his. “You’d better hope we didn’t actually fuck”—she gestured toward the bed—“or I’ll rip off your dick, asshole!”
Shock and awe sent shivers down his spine. “We’re both still dressed, for God’s sake. How could we fuck when we’re both dressed?” He scampered off the bed and toward the door, bile rising in his throat. What had he done? How could he have enjoyed that? With her? Cordray? Satan’s mistress? He must have lost his mind.
“Get out. Out!” She pointed at the door. “You’re supposed to be working, not in here molesting me.”
“Molesting you? Are you kidding? Don’t fucking flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”
Her mouth fell open. “And yet you were on top of me, dry humping me in my own bed.”
“Believe me, honey, there was nothing dry about it.” The words flew from his mouth before he could stop them, and he instantly regretted it. The last thing he wanted was for her to know he’d gotten off. Way off. Because the thick and sticky mess in his Calvin Kleins was one of the biggest loads he’d ever shot, if not the biggest. Damn shit had to be seeping down his thighs.
She gasped. “I should throw you back in Bain’s dungeon for that.”
He blew out a derisive breath. “For what? Coming without a license?”
If looks could kill, he wouldn’t just be dead. He’d already be worm shit. “No, for—”
“Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining,” he said defensively before she could get out another word. “You were getting off as much as I was, sweetheart. Or do you always come a dozen times when you dream about me?”
Her eyes flew wide. “This is your fault. You made me think I was dreaming, when actually you planted that scenario—”
Trace frowned and held up his hand. “Hold up, Maleficent. You were dreaming about me. I didn’t plant anything in your head. I simply looked inside—big fucking mistake, by the way—and there I was. Surprise, surprise. So if anyone should be crying foul, it should be me.”
“Whatever. If that’s the way it really happened, the last I heard, dreaming of having sex with someone isn’t a crime. But you were physically on top of me when I woke up.” She slapped her palm on her chest then shivered as if recalling the way she’d come undone beneath him.
He made sure to stay across the room from her, even though every bone in his body, including the one still straining for more between his legs, wanted nothing more than for him to storm her, toss her on the bed, and bury himself inside her for real for a week.
“We didn’t have sex! Jesus!” He swiped his palm over his scalp. “Get over yourself.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and practically cowered away from him.
God, he wasn’t that bad, was he? Surely, she could think of someone worse to fuck than him. Even though, technically, they hadn’t fucked. After all, dreaming about fucking wasn’t the same as actually fucking.
But, man, it had sure felt real.
After a few long, tense moments passed, she seemed to calm from a rapid boil to a simmer. “Okay, okay. Fine. Whatever. Let’s just . . . this never happened, okay?”
Like hell it never happened! His dick was still letting him know that, yes, it had happened. And that it should happen again. Sooner rather than later. Christ! His dick was in heaven. Wow. That had been unbelievably hot!
But he nodded, anyway. “Whatever you say, chief.” He slashed his hand horizontally through the air like he was karate chopping a slab of plywood and wiping the proverbial slate clean. “Never happened.” It was better to pretend than to acknowledge that major fireworks had gone off inside his balls and that they wanted an encore. “I’m heading down to eat lunch, and then I’m going to bed.” Right after he changed his clothes again.
At this rate, he’d go through every piece of clothing he’d brought with him in less than twenty-four hours.
In his room, he shut the door and plopped his ass onto the edge of the bed and lowered his head into his hands. For the first time in five minutes, he was able to take a deep enough breath to fill his lungs.
Jesus, that female was something. A sexy, infuriating, scorching, aggravating, remarkable, offensive, blood-pumping-in-a-good-and-bad-way something.