Beautiful Misery (Miss Misery)

  Beautiful Misery

  Tracey Martin

  Copyright 2013 Tracey Martin

  I almost bailed. Multiple times. I was tired, achy, and still convinced I was crazy. But in the end, I never got farther than Lucen’s kitchen. I remembered the expression in his eyes when I’d told him I trusted him, and I slunk back into the living room.

  Intense, that was the only way to describe it. His comment earlier in the day—that trusting him was the most erotic thing a human ever did to him—had been made lightly, one of his many quips. But the way he’d looked at me was anything but light. His eyes had stripped me down to my soul.

  In this case, trust wasn’t about baring a little skin. It was about baring everything.

  That was a scary idea. For most of the time I’d known him, I barely dared call Lucen a friend, though he was in truth. Just a dangerous, nonhuman friend.

  With a shiver, I pushed the soft, linen fabric of his drapes aside and gazed out onto the street. Lucen’s apartment was over his bar, The Lair, and his bar was located on prime real estate in Boston’s Shadowtown neighborhood. At night, the busy street glowed with lights—cool neons, warm streetlamps, and the white-gold streaks of headlights passing through. If I stuck my head out the window and craned my neck, I could just make out the logo for the Shadowtown T stop. But stretching that way hurt my broken body, and the warm air tasted heavy with smoke from the fires that had ravaged chunks of the city not so long ago.

  A couple stories below, a crowd undulated in front of the bar. They were a mix of satyrs, harpies, and Friday’s usual abundance of humans on the prowl for dangerous thrills. Very dangerous thrills. The harpies’ magic would arouse their jealousy, the satyrs would simply arouse, and with alcohol lowering everyone’s inhibitions, things could—and usually did—get sticky.

  As the evening wore on, more clothes would be removed, and while the harpies might get bored and leave, the satyrs would feed off all that sexual energy they inspired. Humans could get hurt. Enslaved if they succumbed fully to a satyr’s magic. Embarrassed later, at the very least, for doing regrettable things in public.

  I dropped the drape and headed to the kitchen, once more propelled toward the door by my lingering doubts. As one of Boston’s more powerful satyrs, Lucen was no different than his brethren enjoying all that lusty tension in the bar. And here I was, willing to overlook his predatory nature, his power that inflamed desires in people so strongly that they couldn’t resist acting on them.

  Satyr and human. Pred and prey.

  And what was I? Not one or the other, but something trapped in between.

  A friend who could be more if she had the nerve.

  I rested my forehead on the kitchen wall, staring at the lone wine glass on the table. When I’d decided to stay the night, but had gotten tired of seeing all the uncontrolled debauchery at the bar, I’d carried it up here.

  Lucen had stopped in to see me once, on a break an hour ago, and he’d refilled it for me. We’d had another one of our mostly silent conversations, and I could tell he was expecting me to bolt. But then, I was still partly expecting me to bolt, and Lucen could feed on all my emotions, not just lust. If I was nervous, he knew. The only thing he couldn’t tell for sure was what I was nervous about.

  Although Lucen didn’t know it, I was convinced his power couldn’t hurt me anymore. Oh, when he came up behind me and wrapped his strong arms around my waist, when I could feel his body heat seeping through my clothes, when I was pressed against all that deliciously hard muscle, there was no denying what I felt. It was pure, unadulterated lust. It thrummed through my veins in time with my pulse. I wanted to throw him to the floor and do all those wicked things I’d been daydreaming about for the past ten years.

  But it was worse than that. More than that.

  A few days I’d gotten into a magical brawl with some of Shadowtown’s nastier inhabitants, one of whom had framed me for murder. Since then, it was like my magical nerve-endings had burnt out. The jealousy the harpies inspired? The lust the satyrs aroused? I didn’t feel it anymore. I was blessedly immune.

  Except with Lucen.

  Buried deep in my heart I’d always harbored a secret fear—that the reason I felt Lucen’s magic more strongly than any other satyr’s magic was because I longed for him for more reasons that just his power. Now that fear had been confirmed.

  Surely, he’d sensed that fear along with my arousal as he’d held me, one hand on my hip, the other tucking strands of hair behind my ear. His lips were so close to me that I could have sworn I felt them brush over my skin as he spoke. “Please, stay tonight, Jess. Don’t leave yet.”

  It had taken ten years to get this far. Ten years of occasional visits because I’d been too scared to hang out in his presence any longer than that. Ten years of him never touching me simply because I’d asked him not to.

  Then came one week during which I’d been framed for murder. One week of him sheltering me from enemies I hadn’t known about, proving multiple times that he would fight for me, whether it was challenging the satyr hierarchy or literally putting his life at risk to protect mine.

  No surprise I’d broken, just as surely as some of those humans in the bar were breaking. Only it wasn’t just my ability to resist the physical cravings that collapsed. The walls I’d built around my heart had cracked too, and the cracks deepened every time he touched me. To let him do more than touch my hand, my arm, my waist—surely, that would make them crumble entirely.

  And I wanted him to do it anyway. God, I wanted it like a starving woman wanted food. A desperate pain that consumed all other thoughts.

  There was no question that he wanted to satisfy that need. That was the truly scary part. He couldn’t hurt me magically, but he could still hurt me. Emotionally. He cared about me, that much was clear. He’d risked his life for me. But what did caring mean to someone who wasn’t human? I cared about him, too, and I feared caring about him more than he was capable of doing in return.

  What kind of person made themselves emotionally vulnerable to a satyr? A crazy one, obviously.

  But it was crazy a long time waiting. Lucen had been very, very patient. Something he certainly wouldn’t be used to.

  I swirled the dregs of the wine around in my glass. I needed to grow a pair of ovaries. Woman up. Risk it all. Bare everything and see it through.

  So I stayed, drifting off to sleep occasionally over the next couple hours. Music and muffled voices from the bar drifted up through the floorboards. In the corner, Lucen’s pet dragon snored softly. And on the couch, I rested my eyes and my body, which was badly battered and beaten from the same fight that had fried my ability to sense magic.

  Although it hurt, my body had no trouble responding to the thoughts that danced through my head as I lay there. Ten years of imagining what it would be like to touch every inch of Lucen. Wondering if all those whispered musings about satyrs were true. And if, when my naked body was wrapped around his, when our slick skin was entwined so tightly that I didn’t know where he ended and I began, if when I felt him buried deep inside me at last, would I still care that he wasn’t human?

  I stirred back to wakefulness by Lucen tracing a finger down my jaw line. It was easy to tell it was him. The distinctive scent of his cinnamon satyr’s pheromones played havoc on my senses, and his touch… Burnt-out as I seemed to be on pred magic, his touch still roused me to more than wakefulness. I could feel that sensation not just on my face but singing through every nerve, vibrating through my core and along my arms and legs, and especially straight to my most sensitive areas.

  Smiling, I left my eyes closed, reveling in it. “Are you here to stay or on another break?”

  “To stay. W
e’ve closed. Are you too tired, little siren?”

  In another lifetime and with anyone else, I’d have said yes. “I’m waking up.”

  “Are you?” Amusement laced his words.

  His finger left my chin, slowly gliding down my throat and onto the patch of exposed skin above my shirt’s neckline. He traced that, too, mere inches above my breasts, and oh, were they aware of the neglect. I inhaled more deeply, my chest rising higher as though encouraging him to take that finger farther.

  Instead, the light pressure on my skin disappeared. Fully awake and disappointed, I opened my eyes at last.

  Lucen kneeled on the floor, his face and chest hovering over me, one arm braced against the sofa back to hold himself up. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  I started to get up, but he placed his free hand on my shoulder, letting me sink back into the sofa cushions. I held my breath. His eyes had locked mine. His lips were so close I imagined I could taste them. Just a tilt of my head…

  But he didn’t move, and I realized he was waiting for me to decide if this was really what I wanted. Mentally and emotionally.

  Physically, he could tell as well as I could. I was getting hot from no more than a mere touch of his finger. The last time I’d come this close to him, during my time in hiding, I’d lost control. It had partly been the result of my pent up frustration, but also because of his satyr magic. And it hadn’t been fun, or even hot. Or pretty much anything good sex ought to be.

  For that matter, it hadn’t been sex. I tried to tear his clothes off. He’d tried to slow me down. Then I’d freaked out and fought an internal struggle to regain control.

  Even though I was beyond freaking out now, I still couldn’t afford to lose control this time. I was too broken—bruised ribs, a sprained wrist. I couldn’t throw myself at him, however tempting it would be.

  I had to be strong enough. Brave enough. Willing to risk not merely damaging my body more, but wounding the most fragile organ of all. My heart.

  That’s what Lucen was really waiting for—for me to commit to taking this strange friendship of ours and heating it up to a strange relationship.

  Well, I was ready. He wasn’t the only one who’d risked his life recently. If I could risk that much for him, I could risk my heart. It was probably too late to worry anyway. Once I’d admitted to myself what I felt for him, I was a goner.

  I reached up and drew my hand over his cheek, stroking the blond hairs of his scruff. “Yes.”

  “You understand why I’m asking you,” he said. “You told me before that being around me takes away your ability to say no.”

  And if I couldn’t say no, then how could I say yes? I had asked him that. That realization had been part of my freak-out. But it was a non-issue now. I could tell him no because magic played no part of it.

  If I explained that, however, he’d demand an explanation about why, and that would be a long, complicated conversation. I wasn’t in the mood.

  So I answered more simply, though still truthfully. “That was before. My answer now is yes.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Yes, damn you.”

  The fierceness of my reply must have been what he was waiting for. He grabbed my hand and slowly placed my fingers in his mouth. I swallowed hard as he sucked on them, and it wasn’t just my fingers that felt it. The nerves in my hands seemed directly connected to the ones in my groin, and it was every inch of me between the two being pulled taut. Gasping with surprise, I shifted on the sofa as his tongue slid down me until my hand was free. My fingers glistened with moisture, far from the only part of me now wet.

  His blue-green eyes were bright, their usual mischievous expression replaced by one so hungry in its intensity. “Do you know how much I want you, Jess? Do you know what torture it’s been like all these years, knowing I could have made you want me too? But I couldn’t do that to you. I had to wait.”

  “Because you’re amazing.”

  “Damn right.” Now a faint, mischievous smile did flash over his expression. “And you have every reason to trust me.”

  “I do. I trust you.” I also trusted that if he teased me for too long I was going lose my mind. Every cell in my body was begging for his touch.

  “You owe me for ten years of unrequited trust.”

  “Then damn it, start now.” I tilted my head up. Parted my lips. Reached for him.

  He lowered his mouth to mine.

  Gently, he brushed my bottom lip, avoiding my stitches, then moved to my top one where it was safer. He tugged lightly and ran his teeth over it. I stretched up with my good arm, slipping my fingers through his hair, pressing him closer, breathing deeply of his scent. Not just the cinnamon of his pheromones now, but something entirely him. Old soap and fresh sweat, a deep, manly sort of smell.

  A low moan escaped me as his tongue finally gave in to mine, and my eyes closed again as he pulled me in and I sank deeper into his kiss. The rest of my body squirmed on the sofa, eager to feel more of him.

  Each heavy breath I took accentuated the dull pain in my ribs, but I tried to block it out. No pain. Not fair. Not after how long we’d waited.

  When Lucen pulled away I arched up to meet him again, but though his eyes burned with desire, his face was pinched. His hand landed lightly on my stomach, and he pushed up my shirt. “How bad is it?”

  “Not as bad as it looks.” Actually, my ribs didn’t look too bad, though they felt none too great. The worst bruising was on my thighs.

  “Jess, I don’t want to hurt you. You need to tell me.”

  “It’s sore, but I’ll live. It’s just bruises.”

  He nodded with a doubtful expression. “You promise you’ll tell me if it hurts too much. I can’t sense your physical pain.”

  “I know.”

  With a resigned sigh, he drew his finger around the waistband of my jeans and my muscles clenched in anticipation. Pleasure crowded out the pain, the desperate longing for him to drag that finger lower.

  “Sit up,” he whispered.

  I obliged with more difficulty than it would normally require, and pushed my hair out of my face. I had to be such an attractive sight with my busted lip, the cast around my left wrist, and the copious bruises, most of which were still covered by my clothes but wouldn’t be for long.

  How could this most hottest of men find me attractive? Even when I didn’t look like I’d had the shit kicked out of me, I was no beauty. I kept in good shape, but no one was going to mistake me for some cover model.

  Lucen on the other hand—he could totally have passed for an underwear model. If ad agencies hired guys with horns, that was. I’d been blessed enough to see all of him before, and the memory of it was scorched in my brain.

  As though he could sense my thoughts, he ran his thumb over my lip. “My poor, Jess.”

  “You should see the other guy.”

  That earned me a smile. “I did, and I hope his ass rots in prison. I hope the other inmates return to him three times the damage he did to you.”

  “And you haven’t even seen the worst of it yet.”

  “We’re getting there. Slowly. So you don’t get hurt worse.”

  I nodded, watching the muscles on his perfectly sculpted forearms move as he ran his hands over my knees. Anxiety bubbled up in me. “It’s ugly.”

  “Nothing about you can be ugly, little siren.”

  “The bruising is hideous.”

  Lucen clasped my hands, bringing them to his face, and kissed my palms. “Those bruises are battle marks. Marks you got for running recklessly into a fight for my sake. They mark your bravery, how much you care about me, and your certain lack of regard for your own safety, but I’m willing to overlook that last one. Your bruises are the sexiest bruises in the history of people getting the shit beat out of them with a shovel. If it doesn’t hurt too much, I’m going to kiss every one of those bruises, like I did your lip there, and make sure each inch of your bod
y understands how much I appreciate them.”

  I wet my lips. Lucen’s words seemed to wrap around me like a cord, a silken one—soft and sweet—yet one that squeezed my chest, that made my heart ache as strongly as I ached to feel him between my legs.

  This was why he was dangerous. Nothing to do with his power. Everything to do with the way he could reduce me to mush.

  “You could charm the habit off a nun if you wanted to, you know that.”

  His serious expression broke into a smirk. “Yes, but the advantage to being me is that I wouldn’t have to talk. So I get to save my words for those who’ve earned them. Now.” He released my hands. “Let’s see these spectacular bruises.”

  Cautious fingers slipped beneath my shirt, lifting the fabric over my stomach, revealing me little by little. I let him pull and tug, easing myself free with a shrug of my shoulders, a twist of my arms, trying not to let my cast catch on the hem. Then Lucen tossed my shirt behind him.

  A breeze through his front window caressed my skin and sent hair blowing in my face. He said nothing as he pulled it away for me, letting it fall against my shoulders, curls spilling down on my breasts. Just that delicate pressure on my scalp felt surprisingly good. I hated my unruly hair, but if he liked combing it for me, maybe I should leave it down more often.

  He slid his finger through my last curl and it bounced against my chest. Leaving it be, he dragged his hands downward, over the swell of my breasts and the lace of my bra. My nipples grew harder under his fingers.

  Unable to resist touching him any longer, I grabbed his arms, and his grip on my breasts tightened. Every part of me seemed to be squeezed with them. My inner thighs clenched in eager anticipation.

  “So slow,” Lucen said under his breath, but I couldn’t tell if it was a reminder to me or to himself. “I want to stare at you for hours, Jess. I want to memorize every inch of your body first. I’ve waited too long for anything else. Stand up.”

  “What about you? Your shirt?” I didn’t want to be the only one around here baring everything. Not when his everything was so beautiful.