Jump Zone: Cleo Falls Page 15

  He pulled her knee up high onto his hip and reached between them, fingering the soft damp curls at her apex. She whimpered into his neck when he breached her folds, already creamy and warm and so ready for him. He toyed with her, knowing exactly where to touch, how to tease the tight bundle of nerves to make her crazy. She was so intent on being first all the time, he’d make sure she came first tonight.

  Cleo arched like a cat when he slid his middle finger deep into her tight, slick channel. She was so small, so snug.

  “Please,” she whispered. “More.”

  He added a finger, easing into her, stretching her so he wouldn’t hurt her later. When her muscles contracted around him, he almost passed out as every drop of blood in his body converged in his cock.

  Cleo Rush, with her tilty eyes and pillowy lips, rounded hips and deliciously curved ass—how they worked him, seduced him, entranced him. She made him lose his footing, made him dizzy. Made him hungry. He wanted to cause the same frenzy in her that he was feeling. Make her cells vibrate. He wanted to make her scream his name while she writhed beneath him, make her forget every other man she’d ever known.

  He withdrew his fingers, slick with her essence, and trailed a creamy path over a breast and down to her navel, quickly following with his tongue before the night air could dry her skin. It was a heady preview of what was to come.

  Libra traveled down her body, kissing and laving a meandering line south. Her muscles tensed when he pushed her knees up and spread her thighs apart, but the breathy gasps were all the permission he needed to dip his tongue into her.

  She tasted like the rain, fresh and pure, electric and uncontrollable.

  “Yes, oh Libra, yes,” she begged as he increased the pressure. He slid two fingers deep into her, hooking the tips. The other hand, he splayed over her pelvis to hold her steady as his concentrated on her hooded nub. He sucked, used the hard tip of his tongue to flick and stroke her until she panted his name, until her body grew taut, then quivered with release. He stayed there until the muscles of her abdomen stopped clenching, lapping up everything she had to offer.

  He slid up her length and buried his face in her neck. “I want to be inside you.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, dragging her fingers through his hair. “Yes, please, urbanite. I want you inside me.”

  Her voice was tinged with a sexy rasp that made her sound eager and reckless, a combination that shot though him like a strong aphrodisiac. Could he have stopped himself if she said no, pushed him away? No zhanging way.

  Together, they managed to rid him of his shorts.

  Cleo locked her arms around his neck and her ankles around his back.

  He slid his cock up her slick seam and pressed the head against her clit, just to hear her gasp. He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed into her a few inches.

  Cleo cried out softly and screwed her eyes shut.

  “You okay, darlin’? Am I hurting you?” he asked. She was so hot and tight, he eased back to give her a moment to adjust.

  Her breaths were quick and uncontrolled. “Fine, fine, I’m fine.” She tightened her legs, coaxing him forward.

  In one slow thrust, he was in heaven. He stayed, unmoving and buried deep, while Cleo’s body pulsed around him. Libra sucked in his lower lip and bit down, fighting for control.

  He withdrew slowly and thrust his hips again, deeper, harder, up to his balls. He found her mouth and swiped his lips across hers. “Stop wiggling,” he whispered. If she kept it up, he wouldn’t last another ten seconds.

  “Can’t help it,” she said, nipping his lips. “My hips have a mind of their own.”

  She reached down and grabbed his ass, pulling him deeper still. Without withdrawing, he tilted his hips back and thrust forward again, grinding against her clit.

  Cleo bit his shoulder, so he did it again. Her fingernails scored his back, digging and gripping, begging him for more, giving him a distraction of pain with his pleasure. Urged by her moans, Libra surrendered. He drove into her until they matched one another pant for pant, grunt for grunt. Sweat trickled down his forehead as his blood turned to lava.

  He dropped onto his forearms and slowed his pace, circling his hips with every grind. Cleo’s eyes were wild, her pupils wide open. Her cheeks were aflame with heat, her lips puffy from the abuse he’d dealt. He reached between their bodies and barely grazed her swollen nub when she arched and dropped her head back, the muscles of her inner walls milking him. Whimpered cries of release sliced through the night.

  One final thrust was all it took to set off his own blast of pleasure. The waves of release were so powerfully consuming, he’d decided, definitively, that Cleo Rush was the most sinfully wonderful creature on earth.

  He collapsed onto her and rolled them onto their sides so he wouldn’t crush her. Legs and arms entangled, they kissed, lazy, languidly, until they’d recovered enough to speak.

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?” she asked.

  “You know what. That you were first to orgasm.”

  “First and second,” she replied. She scraped her fingers over his forehead, down his nose and traced his lips. “But I don’t think it works that way. You made it happen, so it’s your win.”

  “Good point,” he chuckled. “I’m first.” He caught the tip of her index finger and sucked it to the first knuckle.

  “In more ways than one,” she whispered.

  Twenty-Two

  Libra’s fingers made slow circles at the small of her back while she relaxed in the afterglow. She couldn’t make the line of her mouth straighten from the satisfied smile it had curled into, and she tingled in places she didn’t know could tingle.

  He didn’t get it. She could tell by his lack of reaction that he didn’t understand what she’d meant, that she was trying to tell him he was the first man she’d lain with. But it didn’t bother her, not a bit. If he couldn’t tell, it meant she hadn’t done anything obviously wrong. Truthfully, after a certain point, she stopped thinking and just did. She let her body react without thought, without calculation, without caution. It hadn’t hurt, much.

  “Tell me more about you, Cleo Rush,” he said, pushing his fingers through her hair before resuming the patterns on her back.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked, willing to tell him anything, everything.

  “I dunno. Tell me about growing up in the Taiga. What did you do for fun?” He dropped a playful kiss on her nose. “Besides terrorize your brother?”

  “Actually, it was the other way around.”

  “I don’t believe it for a second.”

  “Really? Where do you think I got my competitiveness from, who do you think I learned first from? Big brother won every race, every game of hide-and-seek, was the first to complete his homework, first to eat his vegetables… It was a never-ending fight to the finish between him and me.”

  “But it was all in fun, right?”

  “Most of the time. Sometimes it got a little more serious.” And sometimes it got downright ugly. She wanted to win so badly and to hear her father say, “Good job,” like he’d say to Jaegar, but when she started winning, that little phrase seemed to have disappeared from his vocabulary, making her victories seem small and inconsequential. It made her feel dirty, like she’d cheated or played unfairly. Which wasn’t true… most of the time.

  “I imagine you had to be pretty clever to beat an older and presumably stronger big brother.”

  “Oh, Jag tops me by a foot so thanks for recognizing that I had to put some brains behind my wins.”

  “Tell me more,” he asked drowsily. He’d moved from her back to drag his fingers up and down the length of her arm. His touch was unnerving and sensual all at once. She wanted him to stop so she could concentrate on their conversation, but she never wanted
him to stop. Ever.

  Aside from the occasional sucker punch from Jaegar, she’d been denied any kind of meaningful physicality for so long that she wasn’t used to it. She couldn’t recall ever having a hug from her father and her Gram had been dead for years. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the thought of never having it again and it was crucial that she to earn Libra’s touch, his continued affection.

  “There was this one time, we were in a competition,” Cleo began, wondering how much to reveal about the leadership race. “Think of it as a combined hunting-survival skills sort of thing. But we went into it blind, with absolutely no idea what the challenge would entail. They dump this bag of supplies out, and we, the five of us—I’m the only girl left by this point—have to run across an obstacle course to get to the stash, and we can only take two things from the pile. I’m fast, but these guys have a long-leg advantage, so I get there in the middle of the pack. By then, Jag has the rope and machete. Simon and I both go for the axe, but that nasty-ass badger snatches it right out of my hand—see that pink line on the inside of my thumb? Never mind, it’s too dark. I’ll show you in the morning. But it’s from the blade sliding through my fingers, the dirty bastard.”

  He held her hand up so he could see by firelight. “Looks pretty fresh,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips as if a kiss could erase it.

  “Because it only happened last month,” she whispered, swallowing the emotion his action invoked. “Anyway, I take a can of bear grease and a small throwing knife and leave the wire, fish hooks, and moose jerky for the other two.”

  “Bear grease? I don’t even want to know what that is.”

  “Just what you think it is. Bear fat.”

  “Odd choice.”

  “You’d think, but I had a hunch, so I grabbed it.”

  “So what was your task?” he asked, propping up on one elbow.

  “We had three days to make it to a rendezvous point on the shore of the Dead Lake. Once there, we’d be given further instruction. So the first part was simply survival and transportation. Jag was laughing. He had the rope and machete so spent half a day making a raft, another half day hiking it to the river, and managed to make it to the lake in two days. Simon tried—he had the axe, after all, but couldn’t bind the logs together well enough with vine, so it kept falling apart. Everything was too green and tender, so it kept snapping. Fibrous vines work best once they’ve dried out—every idiot knows that—but he kept at it, cursing and swearing enough to offend the elder council overseer. Meanwhile, me and the other two head out on foot, so it takes the full three days at a half-run.”

  “How did you survive three days in the forest with no supplies?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s me… Remember how I caught that trout? And there were berries, roots, all kinds of things.”

  “What about fire, shelter, protection from wild animals?”

  “Can you see my eyes rolling in this light?” she laughed. “Please, Libra. I’ve been surviving in this forest since I was old enough to walk.”

  He pushed her hair from her forehead, as if to get a better view of her eyes, then continued to finger-comb her tresses away from her face. She would purr if she could. “Where was I?”

  “You, conquering nature.”

  “Right. So I get to the rendezvous a couple of hours ahead of the other three to see Jag wearing an expression so smug, I wanted to smack it off him.”

  “Did he first you.”

  “You know he did,” she replied. “He’d spent his extra day repairing the raft from the journey downriver, except now, he’d coated it with pine resin because—and here comes the good part, so pay very close attention. Our task is to open a huge wooden trunk that looked as if it had been washed ashore. It’s banded with steel and sealed with a metal padlock the size of my fist. And the key is sunk in twenty feet of water.”

  “In the Dead Lake? But it’s acid!”

  “Exactly!” she said, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  “So Jag has the raft. All he has to do is fish for it,” Libra said.

  “Yes, but he doesn’t have the hooks or wire, so he’s trying to make a tiny lasso out of frayed rope, but he doesn’t have enough, so he’s got to trim some from his raft, which compromises the structure. Simon shows up with his axe and starts hacking at the trunk, which is ludicrous because this thing is huge and solid as a brick and he practically wipes himself out trying to break into the thing.”

  “So the guy with the wire wins, right? He can fashion a hook, throw it into the water, and snag the key.”

  “You’d think. But he decided he was going to try and pick the lock, and the other one, the one with the fish hook, sat there dumfounded, twirling his little hook around in his finger and bashing his head with his fist.”

  “Why didn’t he team up with wire-guy?”

  “Couldn’t. Against the rules.”

  “And what was my clever Cleo doing?”

  “Cleo had stripped down to her skin and was coating herself in gobs of bear grease.”

  “I’m turned on and repulsed all at once.” Libra gave her hair a playful tug. “Why would you do that?”

  “With the exception of Jag, the others stopped what they were doing to watch, which was part of my evil plan to buy myself some time,” she chuckled. “And the grease protected my skin from the water.”

  “You… Oh no, you didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t go in.”

  “I did. I swam to where the flag was floating above the skeleton key, shut my eyes tight, and dove. It took me about three tries, but I finally got that sucker.”

  “And you didn’t burn?”

  “Nah. It’s not quite as bad as everyone thinks.”

  He rubbed her arms and back, as if brushing away the harmful toxins. “It’s acid, darlin’. It’s as bad as everyone thinks.”

  “When I was little, my father, Jag and I were on the river a bit up from the Dead Lakes. I guess they were busy doing whatever they were doing and didn’t notice that I’d waded down to the mouth of the stream, right where it flows into the lake. They heard me crying. I’d been standing in the lake for a few minutes before they pulled me out. I had mild burns on my skin, but the flesh didn’t bubble and melt off like they tell us it will. The water was diluted enough by the stream water that I didn’t notice at first, but I do remember feeling a tingling the further I went out. Then it started to prickle, like when you step into water that’s really hot.”

  He squeezed her closer, as if protecting the little crying girl. “So what happened after you got the key?”

  “I waded back onto the beach—”

  “Wait. I need a mental picture. Are you still naked?”

  Cleo laughed. “Very, but I’m covered in thick yellow grease, so whatever your man-brain is thinking, it’s not like that.”

  “My man-brain can see through that yellow goop. Don’t you worry.”

  “Are you going to let me finish?”

  “Kiss me first.”

  Cleo leaned in and pressed her lips on his, then pulled back before he could deepen in. “So I stick that key in the lock, open the trunk, and yell—”

  “First!” They said it simultaneously.

  “Yes, I figured,” he chuckled. “Then what happened?”

  “Then I spent the next week trying to wash the bear grease out of my hair.”

  “You’re ingenious and brave.”

  “I know,” Cleo said with a satisfied smile. Despite what happened afterwards, that was a great day. She felt so good, so confident, that she worked up the nerve to explore him. She started by tracing the contours of his bicep and shoulder.

  “You seem pretty competitive, yourself,” she said. “Do you have any siblings to spar with?”

  “I had an older sis
ter. Libby. She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cleo said, stopping to cup his cheek.

  “It was a long time ago. She was ten.”

  “What happened?”

  “To be honest, I don’t remember it all that well. I don’t even remember her that well. I was only six when she died, and we didn’t do much together. She couldn’t play with me because she would tire easily, spent most of her days confined to bed.”

  “Poor little girl. She must have hated that.”

  “Her skin was so pale that I would trace the bluish veins on her jaw when she read to me. I remember thinking she was a ghost, or an angel.”

  “What was wrong with her?”

  “Her lungs were weak. She caught a virus when she was a baby, and it left permanent damage.”

  “So tragic,” Cleo said, pushing back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. She continued raking her fingers through the mess of thick blond tangles while inside, her heart twisted for the little boy who lost his angel.

  “I’ve never told anyone this before,” he said, holding her gaze, “but I think I resented her because we couldn’t do the things that other families did. It was always ‘poor Libby can’t manage it’ or ‘it’s not good for Libby’.”

  Libra averted his eyes. “And after Libby died, things were worse. My mother couldn’t cope with it all. She withdrew so much that talking to her was like trying to communicate with…with a…a piece of toast. She didn’t say no, didn’t say yes, so I sort of did whatever I wanted.”

  “What about your father? How did he cope with Libby’s death?”

  She felt his muscles tense. “He died. Before Libby.”

  “That must have been horrible for your mom.”