Shine Read online

  “Sorr—”

  She laughs. “But you’re kind of driving me nuts.”

  “Now I really want to say I’m sorry.”

  She laughs harder. “Just take a walk, then come back. I don’t want to be alone for too long, okay? But I need you to calm down.”

  “I can calm down. I—”

  “Will you get me a magazine?”

  Bethany is outwitting me by asking for the magazine for her rather than for me. I must be annoying the shit out of her. After biting my lip, I nod.

  “Thanks, honey.”

  I leave, again feeling like I want to cry, which is silly. I wasn’t the one who choked. And it embarrasses me to feel like this. So, stiff upper lip and all that, and I walk through the emergency department to the waiting room, where I’m sure to find a good stack of outdated magazines.

  First, I see three men in all blue. Firefighters. My heart stutters.

  One of the men begins talking on a walkie-talkie. He’s too far away to make out what he’s saying. I want to ask him if he knows of the huge fireman who held me. I’m that besotted already.

  And, hey, wasn’t I already committed to having Paul become my lover?

  He’s a nice man, Paul. I know his name, unlike the blond firefighter demigod.

  I’m too ashamed of the way I feel about the fireman to actually ask about him. I’d look like a fool, wouldn’t I? I mean, he only said that line to make me laugh. To make me feel better. He’s a nice, beautiful man who wouldn’t be interested in me.

  There’s a family huddled together in a corner of the brown labyrinth of the waiting room. They’re watching TV in a daze. I hope they’re okay. I hope their loved one getting worked on is okay. Seeing a soda pop dispenser, I decide to get something when I realize I don’t have my purse. I left everything at the bar. Of course, I’m fairly certain Nan will store our purses for us.

  But that leaves me standing there in front of the soda pop dispenser, feeling through my pockets for loose change when a deep voice asks, “Looking for something?”

  My purse and Bethany’s swings in front of my eyes. The straps are held by a huge hand, this time without any blue latex on it. And I can’t help but smile widely at the blond demigod with his dark golden whiskers that catch the light. I know what they feel like against my cheek.

  Now, I’m not at all religious. Thanks to my past, I shy away from all forms of worship. And I’m a wee bit of a cynic when it comes to faith. But as for demigods, maybe they do answer prayers.

  2

  I asked Jake, that’s the EMT guy who was driving the ambulance, to wait while I collected your things from the bar,” giant Nordic God tells me with a grin at the corner of his mouth. “But the dick just drove off with you two.”

  He straightens, towering over me, taking another step closer, so I have to crane my neck back to look up at him. He’s still smiling. God, I love his smile. Or is he smirking. I just can’t tell.

  “Sorry about the language.”

  “Language?” I ask, a little amazed my brain and mouth are functioning at all.

  “I swore. Sorry.”

  I hope to assuage his worry away with a grin of my own. He smiles through it all. His sky-blue gaze bounces over my face, like he’s fascinated with it. Again, I wonder if there’s something on it. I wish I’d checked before now.

  “How’s your friend? She all right?”

  As if I hadn’t already liked him enough, but add his concern for Bethany, and I’m wondering if my heart will beat itself out of my chest at this rate.

  “She seems okay. We’re waiting for the doctor.”

  He makes one of those purely male grunts, acknowledging what I’ve said. I’m not sure when men figure out how to make that sound—perhaps as toddlers? Teenagers?—but they’re so good at summing up whole thoughts into one noise. And coming from him, it’s like Shakespeare. Good Lord, I’ve got it bad for him.

  He’s holding the purses by his side, looking at me, while I can’t help but stare at him. He checks our surroundings, and I check too, worried I’ve made a complete ass of myself by gawking at him so unabashedly. The other firefighters nod at him and walk out of the waiting room. They smile at me as if I’m about to discover a secret.

  I swallow, not sure what’s going on, when the blond god grabs my elbow and yanks me into a nearby women’s bathroom. He checks the stalls, and when he’s made sure they’re empty, he again smiles at me, standing about four feet away. It’s more space than he’s ever given me, and I feel cold without him closer.

  “Look, this is really unprofessional of me.” He shakes his head, looking adorably sheepish. “But I gotta know if you want to have dinner with me or something. I want to see you again.”

  “You don’t even know my name.”

  “Jane Emory.” He grins again. “Your friend said it. And I memorized it.”

  “You memorized my name?”

  “Yeah,” he says like someone would say, “duh.”

  “But I don’t know your name.”

  He softly laughs. His chuckle bounces through my body and my nipples bead. Great timing they have.

  “Sorry. My name’s Chris Peters.”

  “Chris Peters.”

  We don’t shake hands. We stare at each other. As if we’re assessing each other, figuring each other out. The energy between us is so hot I wonder if we will melt the ceramic sink. I love being hot. Being cold…well, I’ve had frostbite on my toes. Living in Wyoming, I’m supposed to be immune from the wintry weather. But it bites through me every time. Being cold is painful. While being hot, even if too hot, is delicious. I love sweating. I love the feel of the sun on my skin, like a gentle lover’s touch. Chris is like that—he’s the sun. And I want him to lick every inch of me.

  He’s breathing hard. I wonder if he knows my thoughts.

  “I know you’re Jane Emory.” He licks his lips. I wish he’d do it again. It makes me want to squeeze my legs together to augment the growing warmth at the apex of my legs. “I know you teach at the university. You’re an anthropologist, huh?” He must have caught my surprised expression. “I Googled you on the ride here. I made the guys take me here to give you back your purses. But they know I’m really here because I want to see you. And I think you want to see me too.”

  “Chris Peters, the firefighter.” I don’t know why, but that’s all I can say. I’m shocked he wants to see me. He wanted to know me, so he looked me up on the internet.

  He nods and gives me that smile I like so much. “Yeah. That’s me.”

  I realize then that I’m breathing hard and I keep licking my lips. Was he mimicking me? It’s something all primates do when mating. It’s something many animals do when trying to engage in sex—the mimicking and the licking of lips, touching of mouths, touching…

  Slowly, he places my purse and Bethany’s on the counter beside the sink. He looks at me again. No smile. He’s serious now and his golden whiskered jawline kicks. I might just fall to my knees because I love the way he looks. I love his audacity of pulling me into a bathroom to ask me to have dinner with him. I love the way he looks at me. Like he sees through my clothes.

  Like Paul does. Damn it. Paul and I kind of have an understanding. He’d taken me out to three dinner dates, two coffee get-togethers, and kissed me just last night. It was a sweet kiss, leaving me longing, which surprised me, since I thought I wasn’t interested in him. But then I rationalized my body was interested; hence, he could become my lover.

  I’m not the kind of woman who has ever kissed more than one man at a time. I’m not the kind of woman who does anything impulsively. But Chris is so…how to phrase it? He’s hot, and, yes, I mean physically too, but he’s so much more. He’s inviting, intriguing, genuine, and so warm. Yes, he’s the sun, and I love being hot.

  We rush toward each other. I think I moved first, but I’m really not sure. He encompasses me with his huge arms, and we find each other’s lips faster than I can say cheater. Even though the thought of Paul p
esters me, I can’t help but want Chris. I love how surprisingly gentle he is. At first. I clutch at his t-shirt, forcing my tongue in his mouth. Then he’s pulling me closer, making me lift to my toes to deepen the kiss. One of his hands is at the nape of my neck, and he tilts my head, forcing me to open even more. When his tongue is in my mouth, I can’t help but moan. He tastes like cinnamon. Like the candy cinnamon that’s hot and spicy and tickles my nose.

  At first, he just explores my tongue, taking his time to stroke me slowly. I have to place my hands on his wide shoulders for balance. I’ve never felt anyone like him. He’s so…hard. So warm. His muscles bunch under my fingers, and I glide my palms down to his chest, that firm hot wall I like so much.

  He moans.

  I smile.

  He leans away enough to grin too.

  “I’m not sure what we’re doing.” His voice is so low and I nearly shudder from hearing it.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know either.”

  “But it feels so fucking good. Sorry for swearing. Again.”

  I grin. “It does feel so fucking good.”

  His smile widens, and he leans down and kisses me once more. We’re back at it, inside each other’s mouth, squeezing each other closer and closer. He’s erect at my belly. High on my belly. God, what would sex with him be like? He’s so big. Would he be big everywhere? I hope so.

  I nearly giggle at the thought, but keep kissing him, so eager, so happy. I’m bubbling with happiness, which isn’t like me. Oh, I’m not exactly depressed. But sometimes thoughts of my husband invade what I’m doing, and I simultaneously worry that I didn’t do enough for him and that I did too much. He treated me horribly, then he treated me wonderfully. But was he so good to me because he was dying? Did he ever love me? What if I’m unlovable?

  Chris pulls away, still smiling, slightly huffing for air. “Jesus, I love kissing you.”

  “I love kissing you too.”

  Love. What an odd word for him to use. But I like that he did. And I used it too, feeling a bit silly, but thrilled all the same. Like I’m stealing candy.

  “I gotta stop.”

  “Why?” My voice is almost a whine.

  He chuckles. “Because, baby, if I keep doing this, I won’t want to stop.”

  I like that he calls me baby. But does he call every woman baby? Is this his thing—finding weak women to kiss after their emergency?

  I nod. “I’d better get back to Bethany.”

  He nods as well. “I have to see you again.” Leaning his forehead against mine, he says, “I have to. In two nights from now, I have some time off.”

  I smile. I can’t help it. “Yes, I have to see you too.”

  I should say no. I’ve already made a choice regarding Paul. But looking into Chris’s light blue eyes, I tell myself I’ll talk to Paul, let him down easy, so I can be with this big blond stranger.

  Or should I?

  3

  It’s open hours for me, where my office door is ajar for all my students to come and ask questions, gab about whatever they liked or hated from my class, and sometimes complain about how tough college is. I usually don’t mind. In fact, I love my students. Often I have students who are no longer mine drop in and catch up. I remember all their names, and what they’re up to. Well, my biological family had forty-six children, all half-siblings to me, and there were the four other wives to consider too. And if I didn’t remember my half-brother Decker, I’d have to take ten belt lashings against the back of my legs. So, yes, I’m good with names.

  Today though, I can’t concentrate to save my life. When a student came in earlier, I couldn’t focus on her or her concerns for the upcoming midterm exams. I’m usually good at what I do and take a lot of pride in that. I come from a background where I wasn’t expected to go beyond an eighth-grade education. But thanks to my foster mom, I graduated college when I was nineteen and got my master’s degree by twenty-two, my doctorate when I was twenty-six. And, again, thanks to my foster mom, Dr. Anne Little, I had a job at this university. My foster mom was a psychologist who occasionally taught here. She never told a soul about my past. She gave me the freedom to pick my new name and to be anyone I wanted to be.

  However, I find some past habits are hard to crush. I’m still a doormat. For some people. I still have a desire to earn love. Anne taught me unconditional love, which still boggles my mind. Anne and her love were so inclusive, so kind, so generous, so nurturing. Granted, I think my biological mother tried very hard to love me. But there were too many restrictions for her to give freely. Nothing was free where I came from. Anne tried so hard to teach me that her love always was. I can’t wrap my head around that even now. But one day I hope to.

  I have twenty minutes left of my open hours, and I’m thinking of writing a note to get away from my tiny office and the slit for a window beside my desk—the only way I know I’m not in a dungeon. The evening is fast approaching, making me miss all the firework colors of the autumn sunset from my tiny view. I don’t usually think of my office in a negative light. Every wall is filled with books and my many tablets and computers—I like technology, and there’s a filing cabinet that’s almost as big as the room itself. It’s home to me. More so a home than the house I live in. Adoration isn’t a big enough word for the way I feel about my office.

  But today it’s a dungeon.

  I kissed a man I hardly know last night. When my friend was in the emergency department. Who does that? I felt despicable, so I confessed everything to Bethany when I returned. She told me I made her night. She was proud of me and it was about time I got some action. God, I love her. She’s so good to me. And thank goodness everything seemed to be fine with her, but she’s supposed to get a follow-up soon.

  However, no matter how proud Bethany is, the fact is I made out in a bathroom. I keep remembering Chris’s erection against my stomach, and I longed to reach in his pants and feel his hardness. To smell him because I’d pulled underwear down around his ankles. I miss the scents and the feel of a man. A hard body, course whiskers running across my breasts.

  And Chris Peters is the most virile man I’ve ever met, let alone kissed. God, he made my toes curl. I’d never felt that before. Well, when I’m about to orgasm, sure. But just during a kiss? Never. I wanted to arch my feet, clench my fists, and rub myself all over him.

  But I have, er, had—rather, an arrangement with Paul. So, I need to take courage and have a talk with him. Need to tell him that…I met a man last night that made my toes curl. God, how do you say that to a person?

  The “it’s not you, it’s me” line seems good. But it’s so dishonest.

  I don’t know what to tell Paul. Social dictates tell me I should say something, right? My past experience is so bland compared to my life now that I almost don’t know what happened to me. I’d been courted by my uncle, which was as disgusting as it sounds. Then, with Anne, I was busy trying to find my voice, my heart, myself, and to learn everything I could. I became an anthropologist because that was what I was interested in at that moment. But honestly, I want to learn everything.

  When I was seven, I was told I couldn’t be smart. I couldn’t learn too much or I’d never find a husband. Never. Men didn’t like that sort of thing in a woman. This was said to me by both my father, whom I hardly knew personally, and by the uncle who later wanted to marry me. He had me sit on his lap when I began to cry, trying to comfort me, but staying firm that no man would ever want me if I kept reading. I loved learning. And it felt as if my father and uncle asked me to give up my best friend.

  But I obeyed. Belt lashes to the back of my legs were a delight compared to what encountered me when I disobeyed that order.

  So, when I moved in with Anne and she gave me mountains of books, it took months to read without vomiting. Fear is an ugly motivator, and for me, I usually throw up when faced with it. But through Anne’s steady encouragement, I began to read everything. And I mean everything. She homeschooled me, got me into university early, mov
ed with me so I never had to sleep without her close by, and when I graduated with my doctorate, she asked me if I was able to start sleeping in my own apartment.

  I didn’t know she was getting ready to say goodbye. She had ovarian cancer. Stage four.

  I hate cancer now. I hate the word. I hate the smell of hospitals. I hate how my loved ones smell after chemotherapy.

  I met Tim after Anne died, and I clung to him. He let me. We married and I was so fucking grateful.

  And that is the experience of my dating life thus far. Impressive, no? God, most of my students know more about men than I do. Oh, I am an anthropologist. I’ve read a lot about men and dating and rituals of such. But to actually contribute with dating and mating? I’m pathetically behind.

  The problem is, I liked being married. Or in a committed relationship. I liked knowing someone wanted me as much as I wanted him. Only, I never had that with Tim. I thought I did at first. But I never knew if he truly wanted me, and when he was sick I think he only wanted me because I took care of him.

  Other than Anne and now Bethany, I’ve never known what it might be like to be wanted just because I’m me.

  Except last night, with Chris, I almost felt that. Granted, he doesn’t know me. And I don’t know him. But he wanted me. I know he did. And he didn’t want me because I could do something for him. Or does he? What if he’s only after sex?

  Well, I had promised to take a lover. Can my pride and stupid heart handle casual sex? Really?

  Why I had decided to take Paul as a lover was because, I think, he’s been trying to woo me. The dinners, the coffees, the kiss. That sweet kiss that left me wanting so much more. And I thought the wooing meant he might want something other just a night, or day, of passion. He might want more from me, and I was okay with that.

  Maybe because Paul kissed me and left me aching, maybe that’s why I so easily succumbed to Chris. Or perhaps since I’d already told myself to take a lover, or at least try to, that’s why I acted so uninhibited with my fireman.