slim, long hair reaching
halfway down her back. His palms itched, fingers flexing along the soft brown
leather arms of his chair before he motioned with a slight nod for her to come
forward.
"You're
tense," she whispered, running a cool hand along the back of his neck. He
bent his head forward, let his face rest against her breasts to allow her hands
greater access to his shoulders and back.
Since
the accident ten long years ago, every other sense he had was more
sensitive—almost too much. The line between pleasure and pain seemed to blur,
especially when he was touched.
" The
Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away , "the old chaplain had told him.
Stood over his hospital bed and tried that whole
there's-a-reason-for-everything crap. Until Dev had proven to the guy that,
while his eyesight was gone, there was nothing wrong with his fist.
The
chaplain hadn't come back to see him for his entire stay in the hospital.
"Stop
thinking, Dev," Marlena urged, and he sat back, lids closed, and let her
unbutton his pants.
Stopping
thinking was something he had to will himself to do. In fact, the ability to
shut down the brain and just enjoy was becoming harder these days than ever.
The old adage that the other senses strengthen when one was cut off was doubly
true in his case. And lately his so-called powers had been increasing.
Shifting. Doubling. He could determine the wind and weather forecasts from the
pressure of the air on his skin and from the way the air smelled, could grasp
the emotion in any room, coming off any person, from the second he came in
close proximity. He could hear things that he shouldn't and his need to touch
was constant, almost obsessive—to feel sensation beneath his fingertips was
like the bridge between heaven and hell.
Marlena's
mouth slid over his cock, demanding that he pay full attention to what she was
doing, and he groaned. Sometimes Marlena got him maybe a little too much. She
knew he could never love her. His heart was elsewhere, with someone who spoke
to him in ways no one else had ever been able to.
His
balls tightened, her fingers dug into his hips. His orgasms were as close as he
was ever going to get to flying solo again. He accepted that, but would never
come to peace with it. He'd give anything to replace his second sight with his
original way of seeing the world. No matter how much he mourned his loss of
vision, the pain never went away.
Stop
thinking, Dev. Stop fucking thinking.
Chapter Eight
Remy
was pretty sure he knew what Haley wanted from him. And he was even surer that
she wasn't going to get it. Maybe she could base her meteorological theories on
a blow job, but he wasn't about to let himself become a sex toy for science.
Part
of the problem was that he wasn't sure how he could answer her, even if he
wanted to. His weather draw had been going on for so long, he was no longer sure
where the weather ended and he began.
He
stood, swore, raked his fingers through his hair. He needed out of this place,
dammit. And a beer wouldn't hurt either.
"How
long have you been here?" he asked her over his shoulder as he headed to
the kitchen, even though he already knew the answer.
"I
moved in the day before yesterday," she said.
Forty-eight
hours ago—a day after his father had called, begging for help. Forty-eight
hours ago, the urges started, stronger than they'd ever been, pulling him toward
a woman who didn't appear to be scared of those urges.
None
of this was coincidence. But he'd known that from the second he'd spotted
Haley's tattoo.
He
grabbed a beer and slammed the fridge door shut with enough force to rattle the
cupboards. The bottle cap came off with a hiss, and then he flung it across the
room in a smooth motion by flipping it between his thumb and forefinger, and
took a long pull.
When
he looked back at her, she was still sitting on the couch, wearing a loosely
buttoned denim shirt. She'd showered and her hair was dry, free of twigs and
leaves, loose and wild around
halfway down her back. His palms itched, fingers flexing along the soft brown
leather arms of his chair before he motioned with a slight nod for her to come
forward.
"You're
tense," she whispered, running a cool hand along the back of his neck. He
bent his head forward, let his face rest against her breasts to allow her hands
greater access to his shoulders and back.
Since
the accident ten long years ago, every other sense he had was more
sensitive—almost too much. The line between pleasure and pain seemed to blur,
especially when he was touched.
" The
Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away , "the old chaplain had told him.
Stood over his hospital bed and tried that whole
there's-a-reason-for-everything crap. Until Dev had proven to the guy that,
while his eyesight was gone, there was nothing wrong with his fist.
The
chaplain hadn't come back to see him for his entire stay in the hospital.
"Stop
thinking, Dev," Marlena urged, and he sat back, lids closed, and let her
unbutton his pants.
Stopping
thinking was something he had to will himself to do. In fact, the ability to
shut down the brain and just enjoy was becoming harder these days than ever.
The old adage that the other senses strengthen when one was cut off was doubly
true in his case. And lately his so-called powers had been increasing.
Shifting. Doubling. He could determine the wind and weather forecasts from the
pressure of the air on his skin and from the way the air smelled, could grasp
the emotion in any room, coming off any person, from the second he came in
close proximity. He could hear things that he shouldn't and his need to touch
was constant, almost obsessive—to feel sensation beneath his fingertips was
like the bridge between heaven and hell.
Marlena's
mouth slid over his cock, demanding that he pay full attention to what she was
doing, and he groaned. Sometimes Marlena got him maybe a little too much. She
knew he could never love her. His heart was elsewhere, with someone who spoke
to him in ways no one else had ever been able to.
His
balls tightened, her fingers dug into his hips. His orgasms were as close as he
was ever going to get to flying solo again. He accepted that, but would never
come to peace with it. He'd give anything to replace his second sight with his
original way of seeing the world. No matter how much he mourned his loss of
vision, the pain never went away.
Stop
thinking, Dev. Stop fucking thinking.
Chapter Eight
Remy
was pretty sure he knew what Haley wanted from him. And he was even surer that
she wasn't going to get it. Maybe she could base her meteorological theories on
a blow job, but he wasn't about to let himself become a sex toy for science.
Part
of the problem was that he wasn't sure how he could answer her, even if he
wanted to. His weather draw had been going on for so long, he was no longer sure
where the weather ended and he began.
He
stood, swore, raked his fingers through his hair. He needed out of this place,
dammit. And a beer wouldn't hurt either.
"How
long have you been here?" he asked her over his shoulder as he headed to
the kitchen, even though he already knew the answer.
"I
moved in the day before yesterday," she said.
Forty-eight
hours ago—a day after his father had called, begging for help. Forty-eight
hours ago, the urges started, stronger than they'd ever been, pulling him toward
a woman who didn't appear to be scared of those urges.
None
of this was coincidence. But he'd known that from the second he'd spotted
Haley's tattoo.
He
grabbed a beer and slammed the fridge door shut with enough force to rattle the
cupboards. The bottle cap came off with a hiss, and then he flung it across the
room in a smooth motion by flipping it between his thumb and forefinger, and
took a long pull.
When
he looked back at her, she was still sitting on the couch, wearing a loosely
buttoned denim shirt. She'd showered and her hair was dry, free of twigs and
leaves, loose and wild around
Similar Books
