Crucified: The Rise of an Urban Legend (Swann Series Book 9) Page 4

  One button, two buttons, three buttons, four.

  I inch out of my pants, the texture and the pace of my breathing changing, my body delving into a heightened, almost restless state of eagerness, of barely veiled want, of unrestrained need. With my pants nearly at my ankles, I take them off, set them on the foot of the bed.

  Standing in only my panties, my eyes dip to his privates the same way his are dipped to mine. He’s every bit of himself right now and that sends lightening bolts of electricity crashing through me.

  He starts toward me and I say, “No, not yet.”

  The greediness of his desire is an increasingly uncontrollable force inside him. He’s not going to hold back for long. He’s about to go primal.

  Sliding my fingers into my panties, I begin to touch myself, to seductively rub myself. He can’t take it. My breathing changes completely; he might have stopped breathing all together. The pad of my finger slides over my swollen self, wet, firm, so absolutely ready for him.

  God I want him!

  There is only this first time, I remind myself, so I go slow, make each movement more seductive than the last. Two fingers glide up either side of my labia, but then I push one down the middle, and inside myself. A rapturous sigh escapes me. This sets his jaw, deepens his breathing even further. Any minute now and he’s going to slide down the evolutionary scale.

  “You can’t…I mean…if you don’t stop, or let me…” he says.

  At this point, he can’t even form whole sentences. Finally, he turns away from me and I know it’s because he’s terrified of going early.

  Sauntering up to his turned back, I wrap one arm around his waist, press my chest into his back, then slide my wet fingers across his lips, making sure he has me on his mouth. Standing on my tippy toes, leaning over his shoulder so my lips are to his ear, I whisper, “How do I taste?”

  He opens his mouth and I ease my two fingers inside, let him suckle on them. The way he takes my hand and sucks my fingers tells me I taste amazing. Slowly, almost cruelly, I slip a finger or two in his waistband, almost touching him. Almost…

  “If you do that right now,” he says, taking my fingers out of his mouth, “I won’t last.”

  “There’s always forever,” I whisper, walking his shorts down his hips until he comes out. “I want to touch it,” I tell him, my teeth lightly biting his earlobe.

  His breathing is high, and there’s an intense heat in his cheeks. He’s a veritable furnace. I’ve never met a boy as sexually charged as he is right now and this has me roaring with ecstasy.

  “I…I think maybe…just…just do it.”

  I wrap both hands around him and his knees nearly buckle. My breasts are pressed to his back, his earlobe now in my mouth as I whisper things like, “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” and “Do you know how good you feel in my hands?”

  His body breaks into gooseflesh; mine does the same.

  “We’ll never have this moment again for as long as we live,” I tell him. “It’s what we waited all our lives for…this moment with each other.”

  He removes my hands, turns around, looks down and locks eyes with me. There is a primal hunger in him that’s so sexy. It’s staggering how much he wants me. His eyes take all of me in, his gaze slowing for my breasts, my nipples, then making their way down to my panties.

  “I’m so wet right now,” I tell him, my body writhing, my mind knowing what hearing that does to him.

  He takes my panties down, slowing at the ankle. He goes to his knees to take them off. Hands then slide up my calves, work their way up my legs, cup and squeeze my butt cheeks. Kisses dot the skin around my center, warm, slow, purposefully teasing. I feel his breath against my skin, warm, wet, needy.

  “Now, Brayden,” I say, the hard tingling erupting from the center of me outward.

  My hands grab his new hair, grip it as deeper sensations swirl around me. Elbows locked, I move his face into me, then soar the minute he takes me into his mouth. Before I know it, he’s lifting me, carrying me to the bed, pinning my wrists to the headboard with one hand, then easing himself inside me like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

  We find a rhythm quickly, and he varies his speed and intensity long enough to tell me he not only knows what he’s doing, he’s damn good at it and perfectly determined to make sure he makes me happy. In his head, he repeats the mantra over and over again: “You only get one fuck to make a solid first impression.”

  For some reason, this has me not only turned on, but falling hard for him. Well, harder. Yes…much, much harder.

  Wink, wink.

  When we finally step outside in our bathing suits (I have to borrow one from Christian until we get August an appropriate wardrobe), everyone knows what we’ve done. It’s all over our faces, our bodies. In my head I’m like, super awkward…

  Whatever.

  I’m in love with the boy I will forever be with. This is my dream come true. So sue me if I want every last bit of him every second of the day.

  We eat hot dogs, talk about this and that, listen to August talk about his family in Texas (his real family, but with the Augustin Sandino spin) and we listen to Jacob talk about his plans for school at SFU. It’s nice to see Jacob so relaxed around the family, but it’s August who clearly steals the show.

  August is actually quite charming, and peeking in on his mind, I can tell looking the way he does is giving him that boost of confidence he’d been so desperate for as Brayden. I’m proud of him. Proud that he settled the matter with the FBI. Proud that he managed to change himself on his own, that he didn’t do it when I blackmailed Gerhart to do it for him. And I’m proud of who he’s become on his Vegas excursions. He’s grown into this incredible man, sewn his needed oats, tested the waters of whoredome (Julie Sanderson and a number of lesser known conquests who might feel revolting to me later), and now that he’s got that all out of his system, it seems that all he wants is to be with me. In fact, that’s all he’s ever wanted and I love that about him.

  Just before eleven that night, August tells me he wants to take a shower and turn in for the night, that he’s wiped out. When I think of all he’s done after just waking up from his full bodied genetic makeover, it’s pretty incredible. To give me the best sex of my life by a mile alone was a feat in and of itself, one he made look effortless.

  “I’ll be to bed shortly,” I say, catching the eye of Orianna who gives me the we’ll-talk-about-it-after-he-leaves look. If she thinks I’m not sharing a bed with him, she’s off her freaking rocker. I want to say, Mom, seriously, just look at him!

  But I won’t.

  It’s her house, so it’s her rules.

  When he turns in for the night, Orianna looks to me and says, “You totally had sex with him before you got in the pool, didn’t you?” and I’m like, “Mom, it was amazing!”

  “Was that the first time?” she asks, clearly thrilled to be having this conversation with me. I nod like a giddy schoolgirl, my smile positively enormous. “Wow.”

  “I know, right?”

  “So I guess it would pretty much be pointless to tell you that you can’t share a bed with him. And even if I do, you’ll just sneak in there after I turn in.”

  My answer is an affirming grin.

  “So how long have you known him?” she asks. “Really known him. This lie about you two just meeting…I know your reactions better than that, even if you are…new to this body.”

  “A couple of years.”

  “So he knows about…”

  “Yeah, he knows. Apparently Astor Academy not only provides full service makeovers, they do modifications, too. It’s crazy how that place is making money hand over fist, and turning everyone into more interesting versions of themselves, which might be anything but that for some of those narcissistic buttholes.”

  We share a laugh, but my amusement is tempered because one of those buttholes (Cameron) is in her grave right now.

  “Is he—?”

  “What do you thin
k?” I say.

  “How can someone be so perfect and not be modified?” she asks, answering her question at the same time.

  In her heart, she knows he’s modified. Part of me is dying to tell her he’s Brayden just so I don’t have to keep hiding it, but in the end that’s August’s decision. Not mine. For him, being August means never having to return to Brayden, and I can’t say I blame him. I never want to return to the original version of myself either. Like ever.

  “You met Damien. Genetically speaking, he was one hundred percent untouched. If only he didn’t have a thing for his step-sister—”

  “Then you’d be with him and not August and trust me,” Orianna says, finishing my sentence, “August is better.”

  “I agree.”

  I haven’t actually thought about Damien in awhile now, which to me is an improvement. The way I sometimes don’t get exactly what I want in life, perhaps at the time a greater force knew Damien wasn’t right for me because said force somehow knew August was in the works. Maybe there is a God, a plan, a fate not of our own design.

  Holy cow, am I becoming religious? Spiritual? This blemish on the face of creation? Perhaps. Maybe God doesn’t hate me so much after all. Maybe He doesn’t hate me at all. This thought never occurred to me before now.

  Orianna and I talk a little more about August, but then I finally ask her if she’s been in touch with either Raven or Elizabeth.

  “Not Raven. Last she text me, she said she was with Sensei Naygel, and that she was going to talk to Netty this week. I guess that would be now. Who knows? The older versions of you seem less intent on having me as a mother.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just…you can’t imagine the lives they’ve lived. And this is not their timeline, so basically they’re fish out of water here.”

  She nods her head, solemn.

  “I am me though, and I am intent on having you as a mother. And it’ll be easier with you being older than this version of me.”

  She nods her head, a gleam coming to her eyes. She has that faraway stare that comes with the sudden shine of tears just before they form. She then looks at me and says, “I’m sorry, I just get emotional when it comes to you these days.”

  “That’s a good thing,” I tell her, taking her hand.

  “You want some tea?” she asks. I tell her yes and she boils water for Chamomile tea and honey. We sip it gingerly, then she says: “Elizabeth asked where you were a couple of days ago.” Looking at me intently, she asks, “Where were you really?”

  At first, I don’t want to tell her, but Orianna has proven to be rather resilient of late, so what the hell...

  “I was in the future.”

  “How was it?” she asks, swallowing past a lump in her throat.

  Here’s where I start to get uncomfortable. Here’s where I try not to squirm. My poker face with her has much to be desired, though.

  “I can see you wanting to lie to protect me right now,” Orianna admits, almost like she’s disappointed.

  “I am.”

  “If it’s that bad,” she says with a dismissive tone, “then maybe you shouldn’t tell me.”

  So I say nothing.

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  August is in my shower. He’s in my shower and he’s naked and all I can think about is that we’re about to go to bed for the first time together. You might be thinking about Santa Monica, back when he was Brayden and I was just becoming Abby; it’s not the same thing. We were different people back then, different bodies, out to kill a pedophile music executive, but not now.

  Now we’re both new—new people, new bodies, new relationship—and instead of contemplating murder, we’re looking forward to a life together. Is it stupid that I feel giddy AF right now? Probably not.

  I have good reason to feel this happy.

  Then again, would this be as exciting had I not traveled into the future and seen my future self with future August? Who can say for sure. Honestly though, who gives a crap about the world of what if? I don’t. This is real! Besides, had I not seen the future, I might not have made the bold choices I did earlier, and thank God for that.

  My mind travels back to the sex.

  As Netty would say, holy cow, Batman! My body warms to the thought of him. This memory…it’s calling back that low swooping feeling, that carnal hunger, that absolute need to be as close as possible to this man, to this destiny of mine.

  The bedroom door is unlocked, the shower still going. Stepping inside, I think about taking off my clothes, joining him under the water, then thoughts of Maggie return and I’m paralyzed with that grief. It’s not like before; the paralysis breaks quickly. Still, I can’t help thinking of her when this is where I found her.

  Maggie died in the tub. Took her own life. It was a selfish thing to do, but it was a necessity for her. If I could crawl into the next life and find her, I’d slap her as hard as I could across the face, then I’d pull her into a hug and never let go. Maggie was truly damaged, but I am not. Not yet anyway. And neither is August.

  The bedroom lights are off, but the bathroom is ablaze with light. I feel a bit pervy thinking about peeking, but whatever...I’m in love! Closing the bedroom door, I kick off my sandals, pull my shirt over my head and take off my shorts and bikini. In a second, I’m in clean panties and a pink tank top. My choice of sleepwear says I could do it right now, that I’m up for more sex if he is, but I could just as well go to sleep, too.

  The water shuts off, casting the room into near silence. A shower door opens, a towel is taken, a shower door shuts. Pulling back the comforter, I crawl into bed, loving the cool sheets on my sun-kissed skin. Waiting for August to join me feels like a lifetime. Finally he arrives, his head buzzed short (when did he do that?!), his body smelling like a freshly showered girl. I almost laugh, but I refrain because the truth is, he smells good. We’re talking flowery shampoo, scented body gel (a raspberry and orange rind) and light face cream to keep his skin from drying out.

  Cute, I’m thinking.

  “Do you want to go to sleep, or…”

  “Can we do that in the morning?” he asks, quickly. “I want to, it’s just…I don’t feel very good right now.”

  “Are you okay? Are you having a reaction from the treatment?”

  “No,” he replies. “It’s my father. He text me just before I got in the shower, insisted I come home.”

  “Because he misses you, or is it something else?”

  “He says he knows I got plastic surgery. One of the guys who works for him, the guy who signed for my car, he finally told him.”

  “Oh, boy,” I say, understanding what this means.

  “You can’t begin to imagine the complications of this particular problem.”

  “Will finances be an issue? I mean, if he cuts you off?”

  “No.”

  “Because I can help if that’s the—”

  “I’m financially prepared, should it come to that. Thank you, though.”

  Curling into him, melding my body to his, my palm on his chest, my face nuzzled into his neck, I say, “I need to tell you something. It will explain why I’ve been so forward. Why I didn’t want to take things so slow with you.”

  His body stiffens for the news.

  “It’s a good thing, Brayden, I swear.”

  “No more Brayden,” he says. “It has to be August from now on. Brayden’s dead.”

  When he puts it like that, my heart sort of hurts for him. Then again, how many times did I kill off myself? Savannah Van Duyn, Abby Swann, Raven de’ Medici? Three times now I’ve said good-bye to my previous selves without any intention of going back.

  “I’ve been to the future, August,” I admit. “A few years from now.”

  “Personally?” he asks.

  “Yeah, in the flesh.”

  “And?”

  I didn’t expect him to so willingly accept news of my jump, but he does which means either he’s tired and just wants me to get t
o the point, or he’s accepted whatever insane reality I put in front of him regardless of the impossibility of it all. For Christ’s sake, he knows my eight hundred year old self came back and visited me, and that I killed and incinerated her upon request! After that, is there even such a thing as shock value?

  “We’re together. You and I, I mean. We live on a little house in the country, not in California. Closer to New Mexico.”

  I feel him turn his head in the dark, his eyes on me, the question like some insistency in his aura, in the energy he wears like a silken cocoon.

  “Are we happy?” he asks.

  “We are,” I tell him, my voice abloom with tenderness, my tone resonating nothing but exultation. What I want to say, what I have to say—but maybe not now—is that we were happy right up until the time the bombs go off and kill us both. I wasn’t dead dead, but I think he was. Rather I’m terrified he was. But before that? Yeah, we were magical.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asks.

  “Because what’s mine is yours. I want you to know that, in case you decide to go home and things don’t exactly go the way you want.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Don’t sound so formal, ding dong. This is a gesture of love, a measure of my commitment, my chance to give to you everything you’ve been wanting from me for like forever.”

  He rolls over inside my arms and kisses me. Not out of obligation, or to make me be quiet. His kiss tells me so many things. That he’s scared of starting over like this. Scared to be with me. Scared of his family and not being wanted because he chose to be different from them, to violate his father’s trust when his father has been nothing but benevolent and generous with him.

  I get it though. I’m not taking this personal.

  The way you want something so badly, and then you get it, you always have that moment when doubt creeps in and drains you of the celebration. When it comes to his body, this is that moment. This is the time when he’s wondering, “What have I done?” Right now he’s thinking, “I have exactly what I want, what happens if I lose it?”