Anew: Awakened Part 14

Instead, my eyes fall on the belt that I tossed onto the bed hours ago. Without thinking, I put her arms behind her and lash her wrists together. She whimpers as I wrap an arm around her hips to hold her in place, push her thighs wider apart, and, with a single long thrust, bury myself in her again. Before she can draw breath, I start a hard, punishing rhythm. Not even the image of us both in that d.a.m.n mirror, her eyes dark with mingled exhaustion and ecstasy, myself looming behind her deep in shadows, gives me pause.

On the contrary, it spurs me on. I spread the cheeks of her a.s.s and ease a finger slightly into her as I keep thrusting. I don't have any lube handy but she's so wet it doesn't matter. I'll just use her own juices mingled with my come-- She moans faintly and raises her head. Our gazes meet in the gilded gla.s.s. The sight almost undoes me. Her hair is a wild tangle, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. Her engorged b.r.e.a.s.t.s with the hard, puckered nipples I've tormented with my mouth and fingers rub against the sheets as she thrusts back against me. She looks like a G.o.ddess, pure carnal temptation and the promise of ultimate ecstasy all in one. I could lose myself in her forever.

What the h.e.l.l? f.u.c.king never! I don't do that, plain and simple. Nothing is more important to me than control. I've got it back and I'm keeping it. Hard on that thought, I thrust another finger into her and scissor them apart, starting to open her. She's nowhere close to being able to take my c.o.c.k there but I want her that way and every way. I want to do what I warned her of in the spa and imprint myself on her. Nothing can be sweeter than to have her primed to my merest touch, always wet, always ready, mine to do with as I will.

My c.o.c.k is so hard it's painful but I don't give a s.h.i.t. A red mist moves in front of my eyes. She gasps, fighting for breath but I barely hear her. I thrust deeper both with my c.o.c.k in her p.u.s.s.y and my fingers in her a.s.s as another o.r.g.a.s.m seizes her. I can feel my b.a.l.l.s drawing up, know I'm on the verge again, and fight it. I want more from her, everything she's got to give, I want-- Her back bows as her sweet, hot p.u.s.s.y clenches around me in long, powerful ripples like the tide pulling me far from sh.o.r.e, drawing me under, taking me-- My control shatters. h.e.l.l, my brain explodes. Before I can stop myself, I jet into her with hard, bone-deep pulses that jar every muscle in my body and wring me inside out. They're going to have to sc.r.a.pe me off the floor...and the ceiling...and...

A roar of mingled rapture and shock comes from somewhere down in the hidden reaches of the razor-edged black shard that pa.s.ses for my soul.

"Amelia!"

Even though she must be beyond exhaustion, her body tightens even further around me, drawing from me more than I ever knew I could give. Deep inside her, I'm more complete than I have ever been in my life. The hollow, aching emptiness is gone. She's giving me something I've never even glimpsed before.

I plunge on, chasing it, desperate to understand what it is until suddenly, as though I've stepped off the edge of a cliff and discovered that I have wings, I know. Acceptance. Welcome. A sense that I am finally where I belong. With her.

What the f.u.c.k? Something's on my face, hot and wet...trickling down. f.u.c.k no! No f.u.c.king way! Tears?

Abruptly, I pull all the way out of her, letting her fall onto the bed as though she's suddenly burning hot. I'm going up in flames as the realization of what she makes me feel slams into me. Even then, I can barely find the will to stop.

Why should I? She hasn't resisted, not really, and these feelings I've suddenly got can be beaten down and repressed the same as I've done with so much else. I should stay the course, prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I'm in control of myself and her.

In the pale light of dawn creeping through the balcony windows, I let my hand drift down the elegant line of her back, over her wrists restrained by my belt, and along the sweet curve of her a.s.s to her wet, swollen p.u.s.s.y. She moans softly and arches into my touch.

I'm reaching for her again when a sudden fear grabs me by the throat and won't let go. What if Amelia doesn't have any ability to deny me? What if any such choice was left out of her in a misguided attempt to a.s.sure that she would be everything I wanted?

The sudden thought that she might be letting me do whatever I want no matter what harm that causes her horrifies me. All the more because I know exactly what I am capable of.

A wave of nausea hits me. My hands are shaking. I barely manage to undo the belt and toss it aside before rubbing her wrists. My chest aches, too small for the heart suddenly hammering in it.

It's all I can do to bend close to her, inhaling her scent like a drowning man gasping for air, and choke out a few words. "Sleep now."

She makes a soft sound and slumps in my arms. I lay her head on the pillows and retrieve a cover from the floor, pulling it over her. There is nothing I want more than to stay with her, hold her, comfort her but that can't be.

Slowly, fighting myself every inch of the way, I leave the bed. My legs are barely able to hold my weight. It takes me a few moments to get my bearings. Even then I can scarcely tear my gaze from her.

Pain stabs through me as I force myself to turn away. I suck it up, letting it swallow everything else in my head until nothing's left except stark, agonizing clarity.

For both our sakes, I know what I have to do.

I take the chopper into the city. Concentrating on the controls gives me a brief reprieve from the pain that gnaws at my gut every time I think of Amelia.

Pain--physical and emotional--is an old companion. I shouldn't be fazed by it. But then nothing involving Amelia is as it should be.

In a handful of days, I've gone from thinking of her as a cross between a fantasy and a wet dream to understanding that she truly is a human being with all the feelings, needs, and rights that go with that. She doesn't deserve to be bound to a man she didn't choose for herself.

Especially not one whose demons she has innocently re-awakened.

As soon as I set down on the pad at Pinnacle House, she is front and center in my mind once again.

The biometric sensor on the steel door at the far end of the chopper pad recognizes me and clicks open. I don't pause on the bedroom level of the penthouse but keep going down a flight, taking the steps of the floating gla.s.s staircase two at a time. The outer walls of the apartment are also gla.s.s embedded with nanodeflectors to a.s.sure privacy while opening the s.p.a.ce to the city laid out below and for miles beyond. On a clear day, I can see forever. It's definitely not a place for anyone with a fear of heights.

In my home office--more discreet than the one I keep in the command center below--I set to making the arrangements I've had in mind ever since I accepted that I had to call Edward.

He's a decent guy for all that he wants to blow me to h.e.l.l right about now. I have no doubt he's putting good security in place. But he lives in a world that still pays lip service to morality and law. I won't be held back by either.

Brad Hollis picks up on the first ring. According to his ID link, he's in the building, thirty floors beneath me in the training center. I can hear the bark of orders and the thud of bodies as he grunts, "About the h.e.l.l time, Slade. Thought you dropped off the edge of the earth."

As miserable as I feel, I can't help but grin. Hollis is an ex-colonel, now retired and the guy who recruited me into the Special Forces, which also makes him the guy who saved my sanity and probably my life. He's a friend and mentor who doesn't hesitate to call me out when he thinks it's needed. I know I can count on him until--as he says in the Kentucky drawl he's carefully preserved--the last dog dies.

"I'm back now," I say, "and I've got a job for you."

He runs a hand through the straw colored hair flecked with silver that he still keeps in a buzz cut, his ice blue eyes narrowing. "I'm listening."

I take a couple of minutes to lay out the gist of it. When I'm done, Hollis is quiet for a moment before he asks, "Want to tell me who she is?"

I know he means who she is to me but I ignore that. "I did tell you. Her name is Amelia McClellan. She's staying at the McClellan residence on Fifth Avenue opposite the park. Big place, looks like a French chateau. You can't miss it."

"And you want her locked down?"

"No, she has to be able to move around the city, go places. McClellan will be arranging the usual security. I just want to make sure that nothing can get through that. Can get to her. "

The thought that something--or someone--could threaten Amelia hurts even more than letting her go. I know Hollis is already figuring out that there's a whole lot more I'm not saying but I don't care.

"Put her in a bubble," I tell him. "Full protection 24/7 but be discreet. I don't want her to be aware of it."

"Will do," he says.

d.a.m.n, there are times when I love that man. He doesn't rag me for suddenly being so focused on a woman. He just settles in to get the job done.

"Let me know when everything's in place," I say.

We talk a little longer before I get off and make another call. Amelia's new ident.i.ty is complete. A couple of techs I poached from government infiltration jobs are digging into it to find any gaps that might need shoring up but so far they've come across none. I'm rea.s.sured that anyone curious about the new McClellan relation who has suddenly arrived in town won't find anything to raise the slightest suspicion. I can take some comfort at least in the fact that I'm doing everything possible to make sure that she'll be safe.

With that, I head downstairs. I could catch up on work right where I am but it's past time for me to put in an appearance. I've been away for ten days, longer than any absence other than when I've been in the field. Heads jerk up as I walk out onto the operations floor where every project and mission of Slade Enterprises is being tracked in real time. I take a quick glance at the walls of screens monitoring the progress of those I'm particularly interested in.

"Well, whatta you know?" a voice beside me drawls. "Look what the cat dragged in. You have any trouble finding the place, boss? Tallest building in the city, sticks way the h.e.l.l up but maybe you forgot where it was?"

"Hi to you, too, Gab," I reply, still surveying the screens. There don't appear to be any problems but I didn't expect any. I would have been notified at once if there were.

I turn to the tall, statuesque woman beside me. Gabriella Innocente Darque stands on eye level with me in her over-the-knee black leather boots and matching tunic. She's French-Haitian with cocoa brown skin, a helmet of gleaming black hair, and a figure that can drive some men wild. At least the kind who fantasize about a date with a dominatrix. They're doomed to disappointment. She's pa.s.sionately attached to a cute little blonde who keeps Gab wrapped around her pinky. I have to admit there have been times when I've envied them their happiness.

"How's it going?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Pretty good." She gives me a quick rundown on current projects both in the lab and the field. Unlike me, Gab stuck to the academic route, earning a master's in cyber-engineering from M.I.T. before putting in several years with Army Intel. She's sharp, tough, and takes no guff from anyone, which is why I recruited her. Her name's on the very short list of people who I know I can trust.

As she wraps up, she says, "Everything okay, boss? You look...different."

I haven't slept in thirty-six hours but I know that isn't what she means. Both of us have gone a lot longer without sleep in the field.

"Just some things I need to work through, nothing for you to worry about," I tell her. "Anything else I should know?"

"The usual...only more of it."

I shoot her a hard look. "How much more?"

"Can't say for sure. Right now it's mostly rumblings. There were a couple of attempted incursions while you were away. One through the old subway tunnel under the East River. The other through a sewage conduit coming south from Yonkers. Neither group made it."

"What about the coyotes?" I ask.

Coyotes used to be the guides who brought illegal immigrants across the border from Mexico. Now they smuggle the poor and desperate into Manhattan and a handful of other privileged enclaves. Same idea, different world. For the ever-growing number of people who have been convicted of one crime or another, often on the flimsiest evidence, and are therefore denied government benefits, even living like rats in the bowels of the city, fighting for crumbs, beats trying to survive most anywhere else.

Gab shakes her head. "At the first sign of trouble, they ditched the poor schmucks and hightailed it. But they'll be back. They always are."

And the city authorities will be waiting for them, with no compunction about however many they have to kill in order to keep the 'dregs'--as our local media invariably refers to them--from threatening our pristine island paradise.

Except that here and there a few will be allowed to slip through, enough to a.s.sure that more will keep trying. So long as they do, the good citizens intent on sleeping soundly in their beds will look the other way as what remains of individual rights is further shredded in the name of law and order.

The callousness with which human beings are deliberately pitted against each other by those with the power to make that happen disgusts me but a whole lot has to change before that will.

"Anything else?" I ask.

She hesitates but at a look from me says, "Your name came up at last week's city council meeting."

I'm not surprised. Something about me irks the city's leaders. It can't be my charming personality or congenial nature so it must be my tendency to treat them like the pompous, self-serving sc.u.mbags that they are.

"Let me guess. They know I have a birthday coming up and they want to throw me a surprise party."

She snorts. "Only if it's the kind that involves tar, feathers, and you getting run out of town on a rail."

"Sounds uncomfortable. What then?"

"You gave an interview last month in which you were quoted as saying that the concentration of wealth and power in the hands of so few amounts to a form of cla.s.s warfare. Some on the council are saying that's incitement to the ma.s.ses to wake up and fight back."

"That's bulls.h.i.t. The last thing I want is for more innocent men, women, and children to die just because they're trying to improve their lives."

"I know that, boss, and so does the council but they don't care. If they can paint you as a big enough danger to the status quo, they'll embolden anyone who wants to take you down."

"They're welcome to try," I say with a shrug. That's not bravado. I don't underestimate threats but I don't obsess over them either.

She nods but I can see the questions lingering in her eyes. Before she can voice them, I say, "I'm going to hit the pool, then I'll be in the labs."

I need to stay busy, otherwise I'll go nuts dwelling on the pain of losing Amelia. She's left me feeling hollowed out but that doesn't matter. I've done the right thing.

Now all I have to figure out is how to live with it.

Chapter Fifteen.

Amelia The woman in the triple full-length mirror looks different from the one I saw reflected in the golden room. I've lost weight since arriving in the city five days ago. My cheekbones are sharper and there are faint shadows under my eyes.

The palazzo was a refuge of serenity compared to this island city filled to bursting with places, people, impressions, and experiences. Every waking moment, I am bombarded by new sensations. Belatedly, I realize how much my fascination with Ian centered me, making it possible to cope in a way I didn't fully appreciate until I had to manage without it. Without him.

But there are undeniable benefits to having to rely on myself. I'm slowly discovering my own strength and learning to trust my own judgment. As confused and lost as I feel at times, I wouldn't give that up for the world.

Ouch!

The sharp little pain darts under my skin, drawing my attention back into the moment.

At once, the young woman kneeling beside me to pin yet another garment murmurs a quick apology even though it's my own inability to stand completely still for hours on end that is at fault. I manage a smile that I hope rea.s.sures her and anyone else who is watching that she isn't to blame. Inwardly, I'm having fantasies of running away to a tropical paradise where all I ever wear is a sarong.

The atelier of Society's currently reigning couturier is a tribute to the cla.s.sical methods of fashion design and fabrication. No laser fitting machines are to be found in its work rooms. Instead, they are filled with long wooden tables where earnest men and women labor diligently under slanting skylights.

No holographic projections show clients how they would look in this style or that without the need to endure marathon fittings. Here everything is done in the old way with the disregard of both time and money that only the most privileged can afford.

Yet it isn't all bad. I can appreciate the preservation of cla.s.sical skills and techniques in a world where almost everyone wears cookie-cutter garments churned out in robotic factories where no human input is required. I only wish that I didn't have to be so intimately involved in the process.

As though in answer to my wish, Adele finally calls a halt.

"Enough!"

My grandmother, who has been observing the proceedings from the comfort of a nearby chaise longue addresses the man with spiked red hair and extremely pale skin surrounded by a bevy of a.s.sistants, fitters, and general gofers.

Having stood before them for days in little but my underwear, I've become accustomed to their presence. But I would still be delighted to see the last of them.

"Zosimo," Adele says, rising, "everything is exquisite, a true testament to your genius and vision. But surely we are ready?"

Zosimo--I can't believe that's his real name--heaves a sigh. He walks toward where I am standing on display. His gait is the distinctive heel-to-toe walk that many of the elite favor. It, along with the affected lisp that is also considered fashionable, annoy me no end.

All the same, Zosimo is a brilliant designer, as he is the first to acknowledge. Taking both my hands in his, he raises them to his lips.

"Bellithima. Thuch beauty, beyond compare. My ultimate achievement." He gives me a glowing smile.

The bevy coos in agreement while I sag with relief. I have been groomed, dressed, instructed and prepared to within an inch of my life. My back aches, my feet hurt, and I'm on sensory overload but I'm done. After endless hours of preparation, I am ready to face Society. With a capital S.

Or am I?

I dress again in the navy blue suit with a flared skirt and snugly fitted jacket, one of the elegant day ensembles that Zosimo conjured for me shortly after my arrival in the city. The final touch is a matching pillbox hat complete with a short veil that arches over my eyes and just touches the tip of my nose.

I am pinning it in place when Adele says, apropos of nothing in particular, "Never forget, dear girl, that Society is a landscape filled with pitfalls and traps for the unwary. The plain fact is that no one acquires as much as we have without being scheming and ruthless. And those are our good qualities. You'll encounter plenty of others far nastier."