Bound Guardian Angel (11 page)

Cordray pursed her lips and looked away with
a shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

She liked Sam, but she wasn’t going to
reveal her history after one good booby joke. One shared laugh did
not a bonded friendship make, and she wanted to get herself out of
the spotlight before this conversation went any further and shed
light on her personal feelings.

“So how was he? Trace, I mean? How bad was
he when Micah got him here?” Getting them back to the original
question was a good plan, even if she had to work to keep the
personal inflection from her tone.

“He was pretty bad.” Sam’s voice held a
suspicious undercurrent, and a shrewd twinkle lit in her eyes as a
subtle, knowing grin turned up the corners of her mouth. “I’m
taking it as a good sign they’ve been downstairs for so long.
Hopefully, that means Trace is better now.”

Cordray checked the gold-faced clock on the
wall. It was well past sunrise, but she never would have known with
the blinds and drapes blocking out the daylight.

“Yeah, hopefully.” She spun her cup in its
saucer, suddenly uneasy under Sam’s scrutiny. All edgy and
shit.

Trace was in the basement with Micah. The
two of them were doing God knew what to each other. And,
well . . . it kind of pissed her off. Part of her
felt she should be the one giving Trace what he needed while the
other part of her protested that belief.

But by giving Trace what he needed, maybe
she would get what she needed, as well. It had been so very long
since she’d felt that kind of pleasure. The breathtaking, quivering
release of her muscles. The feel of a warm, moist mouth as it
consumed her tender flesh. The delicious brutality of rough hands
kneading her breasts.

All she had left of such sensations were
gossamer memories so old and ethereal she almost couldn’t remember
how being made love to felt. She knew it felt good. She remembered
crying out as her body let go, remembered enjoying Gideon’s mouth
and hands on her skin, but she couldn’t remember exactly how it
felt.

She wanted to know that feeling again. With
Trace, she could. If only she could get past her own fears and his
utter disdain of her.

“So, what are you going to do with Trace for
the next three months?”

“
Do
with him?” She turned toward Sam,
her heart skipping a beat. What she
wanted
to do with him
was a wholly different answer than what she
would
do with
him.

Sam’s eyes narrowed as she angled her head
to the side, almost as if she’d seen the incriminating thoughts
Cordray had just entertained. “Yes, while he’s on parole, or
whatever you call it in the vampire legal system. Micah said he’s
to be in your custody. What are your plans for him?”

Working harder at keeping her game face on
so Sam wouldn’t become any more suspicious than she already was,
Cordray sipped her tea. “I run a shelter of sorts. It’s more of an
orphanage, but we have a school there, too.” She swept her hand in
a half circle as if to encompass the whole gamut of possibilities.
“It’s a place for pre-transitional and newly transitioned vampires,
mostly mixed-bloods. It’s easier for mixed-bloods to get lost in
the human system than full-bloods. I find them, take them in, give
them a home. Asylum is a place that gives such kids an anchor in a
world that would otherwise overwhelm or even consume them.” Talking
about Asylum and her kids gave her a welcome reprieve from thinking
about Trace.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up like this was the
last thing she’d expected to hear. “You take care of them?”

Cordray tucked her still-damp hair behind
her ear and glanced into her half-empty cup. “You sound
surprised.”

“Oh, I . . . it’s just
that . . . from what Micah’s told
me . . .” Her cheeks flushed and she fidgeted with
her teacup.

“In other words, what’s a bristly witch like
me doing caring about anybody other than myself, right?”

Sam’s shoulders fell as she looked down,
abashed. “No, that’s not—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cordray set her cup
in its saucer a little more heavily than necessary, her back
stiffening. “I know what people think of me. I know what Micah and
Trace say about me and that I’m not the most popular bitch in
Chicago. But I do have a heart. I do care. Maybe I don’t always
show it, but I do.” In fact, she cared a great deal. Probably more
than most. When you’ve suffered great pain, you tend to feel
equally great compassion, even if you don’t wear that compassion on
your sleeve.

She faced the counter again as she recalled
taking the razor to Trace in Bain’s dungeon. She’d known Trace was
struggling to keep his power under control, and it had pained her
to see him suffer. She wanted to believe that the only reason she’d
provided him a means to keep his inner demons under control was
because, being in the dungeon, he was close to Bain’s royal
residence. But the truth was, she hated seeing him in so much
agony.

Maybe she and Trace didn’t get along. Maybe
they even detested one another—or at least pretended to detest one
another in her case. But even an injured wasp deserved mercy. After
all, it was still a living, breathing creature that toiled and
struggled to survive just like the rest of God’s creations.

“A shelter is a noble endeavor,” Sam said,
recovering from her social hiccup. “Definitely not for the faint of
heart. Are you planning to have Trace help you there?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll be interesting.” Sam lifted her cup
to her lips.

“Why? Do you think I need to worry about how
he’ll behave around the kids?”

Sam’s eyes met hers. “Your guess is as good
as mine. I’ve never seen him with kids. But he’s a gentle soul. I
think he’ll be okay.”

“Gentle? Did you say he’s a
gentle
soul?”

Sam issued a short laugh. “Okay, let me
qualify that by saying that he’s gentle around here. I know he can
be a terror to others with that hand of his, and I know you and he
have a few bumps to work through before you’ll agree with me—”

“Just a few.” As in, she didn’t think she
would ever be able to call Trace gentle. At least not from what
she’d seen of him.

Sam shrugged. “Yeah well, he’s a good male.
He won’t hurt your kids.” An awkward, somewhat chagrined smile
twisted her mouth. Then she sighed and brightened as if she’d
forced away a sad thought. “So, what kind of things are you going
to have him do at the shelter?”

“Manual labor. Heavy work. I’ve got a lot of
land, and now that it’s spring, there’s a lot of mowing, tilling,
and landscaping that needs to be done, as well as a lot of
cleanup.”

“At least you’ll be keeping him busy. I have
a feeling he’s going to need that.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Gut feeling. AKM was sort of his life
before he was arrested. Now he’s got to find a way to fill all that
time.” She looked away and chuckled quietly. “Do you realize that I
don’t even know where he lives? I’ve known him since January and
have never seen his home.”

Cordray dropped her gaze into her teacup.
“Look around, Sam.”

Sam frowned then said, “What do you
mean?”

An empty ache dove into her stomach as she
faced Sam again. “Look around.” She gestured toward the house.
“
This
is Trace’s home.”

Those four words bothered her more than
anything she’d said, heard, or done all morning. And she knew why,
even if she refused to admit it.

Deep down, in a place she struggled more and
more to suppress, she wanted Trace’s home to be with her.

Chapter 6

Trace luxuriated in both the bath Micah had drawn, as
well as Micah’s presence, which enveloped him like a warm blanket.
Just being near Micah soothed him. Feeling his hands scoop warm
water over his chest, arms, neck, and head was enough to bliss him
out even more than he already was.

Micah took his time bathing him, but as the
water grew tepid and Trace’s fingertips shriveled into clam-like
nodules, Micah opened the drain and helped Trace from the tub.

Trace couldn’t even speak. He was too
relaxed. Too lost in the tranquility that only came after a scene.
Only this time it was much deeper. Micah had taken him further than
anyone ever had, and he didn’t want to talk, move, or even breathe
for fear of losing this treasured, euphoric feeling.

Micah seemed to sense his mental state,
because he remained quiet, and he moved with unobtrusive restraint.
As if he knew how precious and fragile the moment was.

Micah guided him to the marble bench near
the shower, retrieved a towel from the precisely stacked linens
organized by color and thickness, then knelt in front of Trace as
he wrapped the plush softness around his shoulders. He gently
scrubbed the towel up and down his arms, over his head, across his
back, down his torso and legs, slowly lifting each foot to dry his
soles.

All Trace could do was watch. And feel. And
indulge his placid senses.

“How do you feel?” Micah asked, his voice
low and sedate.

“Good.” Trace’s voice sounded deeper than
usual. Not having to guard against his inner beast made even his
vocal chords relax. “I’m calm.”

Micah smiled. “We live to breathe another
day then.”

Trace’s lips curved into a lazy grin.
“Thanks to you.”

Micah wrapped his forearm behind Trace’s
head and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched. “I’m
here for you. I’ll always be here for you. I won’t ever let
anything happen to you, Trace.”

Trace closed his eyes and breathed in the
warmth pouring out of Micah’s body. This was his friend, his
master, his confidante. His savior. Without the hope becoming
Micah’s friend had given him, Trace wasn’t sure he would still be
alive today. It was that hope—that Micah would agree to be his
master—that had kept Trace going.

The wait had been worth every second. He’d
just experienced the most incredible scene in his memory.

The hot wax, the tightening of his skin, the
controlled care and dominance Micah had exercised, the way he’d
been bound at the wrists so he couldn’t move and had to relinquish
trust in himself and pass it to Micah . . . all of
it had led to the most astonishing and glorious trip through
subspace he’d ever taken, culminated by the most intense orgasm any
of his masters or mistresses had ever given him.

The release itself had been something beyond
reality. He’d been floating, sailing along inside his head, and
then Micah’s fingers had grazed his balls. The electric pulse of
arousal had awakened every nerve ending in his body, tossing him
into a furious spiral. He’d felt like a new star being born,
drawing every fragment of cosmic dust into his body as Micah’s palm
wrapped around his erection and began pumping. Within seconds, dark
matter exploded, sending heat into the universe, expelling light in
all directions.

When he drifted back into consciousness and
found himself still on Micah’s table, his whole body had hummed
with electricity. He’d known then that he had another orgasm inside
him, on the verge of erupting. One that a simple, subtle caress
would release. A caress Micah had given him as he began his
aftercare.

Trace had never come twice like that. So
hard, so completely.

He wanted for nothing.

Nothing, that was, except a mate of his own
who could do to him all that Micah had just done without requiring
his submission to achieve it.

Don’t get him wrong, he relished this. He
enjoyed flying through subspace at Micah’s hands. The pleasure
experienced as Micah’s submissive was beyond compare, but he didn’t
always want to rely on being taken to another place mentally to
experience pleasure. He didn’t want to always be subjected to pain,
degradation, and being bound to find arousal. He dreamed of being
the master. Of being an active participant rather than the object
of someone else’s stimulation.

A true mate—one he bonded to and experienced
a calling with—would allow him that. At least, he assumed she
would. And in his mind, his true mate
was
a female. A
dynamic, spunky, spitfire of a female who could take as well as
give. That’s what he wanted. That’s what he dreamed of. Where could
he find such a female?

Cordray.

His eyes flashed open as Cordray’s name
whipped unbidden through his thoughts, as if she were the answer to
his question. Hell no. Cordray was the last female he needed. The
last who could give him all that he desired.

Wasn’t she?

His brow tightened as he recalled how his
body responded every time she was around. Not one time had he
walked away from her without an erection. She heated him inside and
out with her smart mouth and verbal jabs. Even now, just thinking
about their aggressive exchanges made him want to find her just so
they could argue and toss insults at each other. The only time he
felt as alive as Cordray made him feel was when he was with Micah.
But with Cordray, he didn’t have to go submissive. He could get in
her face, verbally spar with her, and still feel his power bow out
and recede into the shadows.

Maybe that wasn’t the same as being
dominant, but it sure as hell wasn’t falling into submission,
either.

Was it possible that Cordray could
be . . .?

He couldn’t even think that question to its
conclusion. Cordray couldn’t be his mate. She simply couldn’t
be.

He mentally shook off the possibility. In
his dreams, the female he imagined he would mate didn’t have
tattoos all over her body and didn’t come prepackaged with the
attitude of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Still, Cordray was a fine piece of female.
She had all the right curves in all the right places. He didn’t
have to like her to appreciate the package she came in.

“Come on, buddy,” Micah said, pulling him
from his thoughts, “let’s get you to bed so you can rest.”