"That's because of how fresh it was," he said.
"So humble," Tricia said, closing her eyes and shifting herself down to the sandy soil to lay out beside the fire and digest, her head propped up on the log they'd been sitting on. For a moment, looking at her laid out like that with her eyes closed and her hands folded over her stomach, Damon felt a dread sensation. She looked dead. Just like she almost was. Would have been, if …
He pushed the thoughts from his head and focused on the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her nose scrunched when a breeze lifted a strand of hair and tickled it against her face. She wasn't dead, she hadn't died, she was here now, with him. That thought kicked up another sensation, one far more pleasant but harder to push away.
Her body, gentle and curvaceous and tanned to the shade of the sand, was enough to make his mouth water. She would be more delicious than any gourmet camp side meal. He was going to wait for her to be ready, for her to trust him, for her to ask for what she wanted from his body. But the waiting was hard. The waiting was damn near impossible.
If he could have, he would have gone over to her right then, in the light of the sunset, and run his hands up her legs to where they met at her delta, pressed his body against hers and spread her wide, licked the flesh of her neck and readied her for him, watched her eyes expand and deepen as he showed her everything a man could do to please a woman worth pleasing …
Instead, he rose and walked a short distance towards the sea. He was hard as stone, painfully hard, his erection throbbing against the zipper of his jeans. The waves against the shore were like the blood pumping up his neck, down his arms, through his manhood. There were always stories about gypsy witches. Tricia had more power over him in one finger than any sorceress of legend. He didn't question why, or how. It wasn't worth questioning. He trusted the tides of his heart and body.
How long was it supposed to take to fall in love? He'd fallen in love with her the night they met. And in the time since, that love had grown patient, tempered, and true. He would wait. He knew not everyone was like him, that most people needed to be sure of someone before they loved them. So he would wait for Tricia to come to that by herself, if she ever did. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she wouldn't love him back. That wouldn't make what he felt any less precious, any less worth having.
Back at the campsite, Tricia felt rather than saw Damon's absence. She blinked her eyes open, turned to see where he'd gone, and saw his silhouette against the setting sun. It was so beautiful she felt her heart cracking in two. Off in the distance, she could see one of the island's lighthouses, and thought that it was a fitting addition to the living mural before her. Something sturdy and larger than life.
It's too soon, she told herself. You still barely know him … you've never even kissed … it's too soon …
But beneath that warning, her heart beat steadily, and the tune to which it beat was a salve to every wounded doubt.
My man, my man, my man, my man …
16
The dreams didn't always come, but when they did, it was with the sort of violence that shook her whole body, spasms and screams that wrecked the silence of any evening. Usually, she suffered them alone. She preferred it that way. She didn't want anyone to know. She didn't want anyone to step in, act like she was broken. She was, but she was healing herself – as best she could, in her own way.
That night, after the fire crackled down to its embers and they kicked sandy dirt over it, when the crickets and cicadas and night birds were performing their nocturne, the dreams came. There was no rhyme or reason to it. The day had been good. Lovely. Beautiful. Nearly perfect. But the dreams came anyway.
Horrible claws tugged at her flesh, around her neck, raking open wounds all down to her chest. They were cold, like they were dipped in liquid nitrogen, and it flooded her veins with an ice so frigid that it should have killed her. Death would have been a mercy. But it didn't come, it never did.
All she could do was struggle and scream and try to escape, but the harder she tried, the more the claws tugged, the deeper they went. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. Soon, she'd be unable to scream. Eyes in the darkness were an audience of evil men, all watching and glorying in her torture. When she cried out, they didn't come to help, but clapped. They approved of it.
Damon woke to the sound of her screaming. It woke him like a shot in the dark, his heart racing as he shot straight up in the bed. Images flooded his mind in a flash, wild animals and evil men coming to take what little Tricia had left. And it fueled his anger, sense taking a backseat to a crazed need to protect her, to keep her safe. He flipped himself out of the bag and across the tent to her form, shaking and convulsing in the confines of her sleeping bag.
She was asleep. There was no one else. She was dreaming.
It didn't calm him, knowing this. As he brought her into his arms, trying to wake her without scaring her further, he felt as angry as ever. Angry at a past that had left her like this, sweating cold bullets against his chest, her screams quieting as she woke up. She had thrashed her way out of her sleeping bag and was wearing only an over-sized t-shirt that reached to her thighs, and a pair of panties. He tried not to notice how soft and luscious her skin felt, how her legs were strong and shapely against him.
"It's okay," he growled, one arm around her back, his hand on her chin pulling her face towards his. He would fix this. Her movements slowed, her eyes blinked open, her mouth still hanging agape in a wordless cry. It was dark in the tent, but he could see the glossy sheen of her eyes as they stared back at him. Her body was damp with sweat but warm, her pulse quick, a small mewling sound escaping her throat.
And then she was closer. She was right there.
Her mouth was closing over his, clumsy in the dark but finally finding it, and their tongues clashed together, pushing against each other. She moaned into his mouth, her body alive and buzzing in his arms, turning towards him so that her breasts pressed against his chest. Immediately, Damon's cock stiffened, the taste of her flooding every synapse in his brain, potent as espresso. He growled against her lips and lowered his hands, not thinking about his actions; he slipped his hands around her bottom and clutched her closer, squeezing the flesh there tenderly. She broke away, voice breathless, eyes glistening in the dark.
"Fuck me," she said, panting. "Fuck me, Damon, please … "
It was those words, ironically, that finally forced Damon back to his right mind. He released her gently, slowly. He didn't want to "fuck her". Not like this, not after whatever dream she'd been having. She was begging him from a dark place, a primitive need rather than a primal want. Sensing his reluctance, she whimpered and tried to crawl closer to him.
"Please," she whispered, finding his ear, her words hot and misty against his flesh, forcing a battle of wills between his cock and his heart. His hands were on her sides; he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid of what she did to him, the person she incited in him. She made him want to be careless and wild and feral. He fought that urge, lifted his hands to her shoulders, still bunched tight and knotty with fear.
"Calm down," he whispered back, gently beginning to knead the taut flesh. "Calm down, yes'tacha, calm down … "
Ves'tacha, beloved, slipping from his mouth so easily he barely knew he'd said it.
She responded to his ministrations, slowly but surely. Her breath slowed, heart returning to normal. She was still curled close to him, all the better for his hands to move around her shoulders and upper back, rubbing away the built-up tension. He breathed a sigh of relief as his cock finally showed signs of giving up the ghost.
"Are you feeling better?" he asked, still rubbing her flesh through her t-shirt. He felt her nod against his chest.
"A little," she said. "I got … I got a little carried away. I'm sorry, ugh, that's so embarrassing … I just felt crazy and … "
"It's alright," he said, biting back a sardonic smile. She had no idea how close he'd come to doing just what she'd asked. "It's not a one-way street, trust me … "
"Ugh," Tricia said, trying to pull away slightly now. "That was a gnarly one. I'll never get back to sleep."
Damon didn't release her as she tried to pull away. He wasn't going to fuck her. He'd already decided that – it was too soon, and the circumstances weren't ideal. But he didn't have to deny her a good night's sleep. And he didn't have to deny himself a taste of what he wanted.
"I can help you with that," he said, lowering his lips to meet the soft flesh of her shoulder, his hand pulling at the neck of her shirt. She shivered, her head rolled to the side, a slight coo escaping her mouth.