Promise

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Jewell Dean

  First published in www.barebackangels.com, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  He'd always been able to make her need, make her twist and cry out his name. There was something about his hands—rough and callused and square, pressing against her breast, her belly, her clit—that made every nerve fire, every inch of skin scream for him.

  Liz twisted on their sheets, her nails sliding over her too-sensitive skin. Her inner thighs were wet, slick with her own juices, her body demanding more, now. She closed her eyes, just remembering the touches of Neil's tongue on her made her moan out loud, made her ache for more, for the push and stretch of Neil's thick cock inside her, filling her.

  Loving her.

  "Oh, please...” She turned over, ass in the air, long dark hair tangled and sweaty around her face. Liz rocked, hips begging like she was in heat, fingers sliding furiously over her clit. Her nipples scraped over the sheets, hard and sensitive, needing Neil's fingers to pinch, to tug. Needing those lips on her shoulder, whispering to her. “Want you, Belle. Need to hear you. So pretty, so hot. My Belle."

  "Yours. Please, Neil. Please.” Her fingers pushed deep inside her, the action arching her spine. Heat flooded her in a rush, thighs trembling and shaking as pleasure coursed along her nerves, belly clenching with it.

  The tears didn't start until she slumped to the mattress, face buried in Neil's pillow, the scent of him long gone. The only thing she could smell in their room now was the cucumbery scent of her shampoo, the faint hint of grape from the half-full glass of wine on the nightstand and her own musk, wetness drying on her fingers.

  "Asshole. How could you leave me here? Leave me like this?” Liz remembered how he'd looked, walking out the door that last time, coat caught by the wind. “You weren't even on call, love. The other guys at the station could have handled it, but no. You heard about the warehouse explosions and that was it. Fucking fires. Fucking honor."

  She'd never expected to see Tommy McGoogal at the door with the Chaplain, tear tracks on his soot-stained face, hat in hand. Never expected to hear what every firefighter's wife dreaded.

  "Explosion."

  "Lost."

  "Nothing left."

  "I'm sorry, Lizzie."

  "So sorry."

  The wine splashed over her trembling fingers, the cabernet catching on the bezels of her wedding ring, making bloody tears over the diamonds. Bloody tears. She'd buried an empty box and now all she had left were year-old memories and bloody fucking tears.

  Liz kneeled up, glass rolling off the edge of the mattress to stain the carpet as her fists slammed into Neil's pillow over and over. “Sorry. Fucking sorry. I'm fucking sorry! I'm sorry I'm here in our house waiting for you, waiting for you to come home like you promised me. You swore to me."

  Looked right at her with those huge blue eyes—so sincere, so honest—and said, “Belle, baby. It's just a big fire. The boys need me. I'll be home for your birthday dinner. I swear. Just finish watching X-Files and I'll wake you when I get home."

  Her mother had finally re-primered the walls in the dining room eight months ago, the oil from the thrown cheesecake seeping through any paint they'd put up there. The broken glass and furniture had been carted away by her brothers almost immediately, even before the funeral.

  "God damn you, Neil. How could you just leave me here? You promised we'd have forever, a life, a family. Everything. You promised and then you left.” The words were sobbed into the pillowcase, her tears leaking out, spreading over the white cotton. “You promised me."

  Promised her.

  * * * *

  "Lizzie, please. Come with us."

  Christ, Naomi could be a stubborn twit. “Look, honey. I would, but I don't do out and I don't do parties and I certainly don't do costume parties."

  Liz filed the paperwork on her desk, brushed the little fallen leaves from the flowers the guys at the station sent weekly. She didn't mind working here—doing payroll and such. In fact, it gave her something to do, a little extra cash, people to talk to. Somehow, though, she always ended up feeling older than all the other girls, like losing Neil aged her ten years.

  "Oh, come on. It's not a set up or anything. It's a charity event.” Naomi was so earnest, so honest. So damned desperate to make friends, being the new girl and all. “Besides, I even have a dress you can borrow; we're of a size."

  "Yeah?” Like anything that looked pretty on little sleek, blonde Naomi would work on her. Lizze was built like exactly what she was—an Italian girl with all the olive tones and curves that came with the territory.

  Naomi nodded, ponytail bobbing. “I do. Please. You'd make a perfect gypsy and we'll have fun. Honest."

  "Oh, I don't know...” A gypsy? That could work, really. Not too much effort and she could avoid listening to her mother complain how she never left home.

  Not to mention she'd worn a gypsy costume for Neil, the last Halloween they were together. He'd loved it—the white blouse, the layers of red and gold skirts. The jewels, the huge hoops in her ears.

  Not to mention the heavy makeup and her hair down and curled.

  Neil'd dressed as a priest, and it had been so perverse, his frock coat open as he'd flipped her skirts up, bent her over the sink in the bathroom at the hotel and taken her, fucked her as they locked eyes in the mirror, brown meeting bright blue.

  Heat flooded her and she shifted, feeling her cheeks flush. God, God. Not now. Why did this keep happening to her? It was like she could feel him, almost smell him. Why now, after so long?

  Naomi took the blush as insecurity, which was better than the truth. “Sure you do. We'll have a few drinks, ogle the rich folks, have little quiches and cocktail weenies."

  "Cocktail weenies?” Naomi's laugh was infectious and she found herself nodding, agreeing to go, agreeing to anything so she could escape to the bathroom, wash her face. “Okay. Okay. I'll meet you at your apartment to get dressed?"

  "You can ride with me after work. It's not far from here.” Naomi nodded, smiled at her. “I'm going to be a cancan girl; you know, big skirts and lace and fishnets?"

  Fishnets. Thank God she was going to be the gypsy.

  * * * *

  Liz sat at the bar, watching Naomi dance with someone she thought was supposed to be Zorro. There were probably fifty people milling around, all dressed in wild costumes, from King Tut to Napoleon. She ought to know. Most of them hit on her. She turned them down left and right, sipping her drink and feeling jaded.

  "How can someone as beautiful as you sit all by herself with that ironic little smile, hmm?” Oh, great. Another one, this one dressed like Dracula, or maybe the Phantom of the Opera, with that mask he had on.

  She tossed her hair, shook her head. “I'm just watching the crowds."

  Go away.

  "What, no dancing for the gypsy? I bet you do a mean twirl. Come on, let's give it a shot."

  "I don't dance.” Not anymore. He had a great voice, though, husky and warm.

  "That's a shame.” His fingers glanced against her spine, just barely, way too forward. But it made her shiver.

  She took a drink of her wine, the flavor suddenly too sweet and cloying. “I ... I think I need another drink. This wine isn't working for me."

  "How about a whiskey sour?” He signaled the bart
ender, ordering for her. “You look like a girl who can take it."

  She surprised herself by chuckling, her earrings jingling, catching in her hair. “You're the first man to offer me whiskey in a long time."

  Her mamma insisted that wine was the only alcohol a lady should drink alone.

  "Not all women are made for fruity stuff, honey.” His voice was like honey, she thought. Mixed with smoke. She used to think that about Neil.

  She shook her head, “No, I don't suppose they are. So what makes a woman look like she can drink whiskey?” Liz wasn't flirting. She never flirted. She was just being friendly.

  "The set of her chin. The fire in her eyes when she watches her friend about to be fucked over by Zorro. The color of her hair.” Again he touched her, this time tugging the ends of her hair. “You're something else, gypsy lady. I can tell."

  "Oh.” She shivered, nipples going tight, heart beating a little quickly. He had amazing hands. Strong hands. A man's hands. “I ... Thank you."

  The whiskey burned as it slipped down her throat, warmed her all through.

  "You're welcome.” His voice dropped low, barely audible above the music. “Dance with me."

  "I...” He had blue eyes, bright blue. “I shouldn't. I haven't in a long time. I don't know if I still can."

  Liz caught herself nodding anyway, suddenly wanting to be alive, to be touched, so badly.

  "Of course you can. Someone danced with you once. So well you floated. No woman can forget how to do that.” He drew her out, hand on hers without her even thinking about it, smiling under the mask. He had a little scar on his lower lip. The urge to reach up and touch it scared her, unnerved her badly, but they were already walking, already moving into the dim lights. He was tall, solid, sure as he moved her out onto the floor, one hand landing on her waist.

  They danced like they'd been doing it for years. He smelled vaguely of smoke, but of pine and spice, too. His dancing was sure, easy, leading her around the floor. She closed her eyes, a sweet, slow waltz starting. Oh, she loved to waltz, loved the spinning and rhythm and the way her partner held her. “I used to waltz in my living room, around and around."

  "I'm glad. You dance very well, honey.” His hand tightened around hers for a second, caressing.

  "Thank you. It's easy with a good partner.” Simple. Right.

  "We do move well together.” He didn't pull her too close, but kept her just close enough that she could feel muscles shift and roll under his costume.

  "Thank you for asking.” Tomorrow she would feel guilty about this, about adding this dance to a thousand dances with Neil, but not tonight. Tonight, she'd just let him lead her around the crowded floor.

  They ended up on the far side of the floor, away from her friends, back where there were dark booths and quiet corners. He brought one of her hands to his mouth to kiss the back. “That was a wonderful waltz. Thank you."

  Oh, gallant. Sweet. Sexy. She ducked her head, blushed. “Thank you. For the dance and the drink."

  "You're very welcome. You tempt me to push it, but that would be stupid of me."

  "Yes, probably, but I could be feeling tolerant. It was a lovely dance.” Liz arched an eyebrow, unable to stop her smile. “Would you like to sit down for a minute? I don't even know your name yet."

  Naomi looked like she wouldn't be ready to leave for a while yet and there was no harm in talking.

  "Certainly.” He ushered her to a chair, holding it out for her, the little table for two somehow more intimate than a booth.

  "Thank you.” She arranged her skirts, slipped off the silly, strappy, sparkly heels that Naomi'd insisted she wear. They'd done wonders for her calves, but oh. Better.

  His smile went knowing. “Much better, hmm? Would you like a drink?"

  "I probably shouldn't, but I suppose I can manage one more.” She dug into the tiny little change purse in her pocket and handed over a twenty. “Here, this round's on me."

  Just don't make her put the shoes back on for a minute.

  He looked like he might argue, something odd flashing in those light blue eyes, but instead he nodded, waving down a cocktail waitress and ordering them both a drink. “So tell me how you ended up here tonight."

  "Oh, a girl from work had an extra invitation and didn't want to come alone. I wasn't going to come, but she had an extra costume...” Liz pulled her hair up off the back of her neck, holding the mass of curls up with both hands. “It was sort of a last-minute offer, but I'm glad I came out."

  She'd been lonely.

  "So am I.” There was something about the way he lounged in his chair, something in the way his long body arranged itself, that pinged her memory, hovering on the very edge of her mind. Maybe she was losing it. He laughed. “I might have said that already."

  "If you did, it's one of those things it's okay to hear again.” She took a closer look, trying to see if maybe he was someone she worked with, running through the list of names on the payroll checks she filled out, but no. No, she didn't think so.

  Their drinks came, and they chatted, both of them flirting outrageously. Somehow only seeing his mouth and eyes made it illicit, thrilling. She could concentrate more on what he said, on the texture of his voice when he said it. She never even realized he'd reached across the table to hold her hand until Naomi came over with Zorro, grinning from ear to ear.

  "Hey, Liz. Do you think, uh. I mean. Can I pay for you to get a cab?"

  Oh. She looked around, the crush of people easing. “No problem, Naomi. I'll call a cab. You be careful and I'll see you Monday, okay?"

  Her car was parked at the house, so it wasn't like she'd be stranded over the weekend.

  "Thanks, babe!” With a wave and a giggle, Naomi was off, leaving her with mister ... vampire with no name.

  Who smiled at her a little ruefully. “At the risk of sounding like a stalker, I can take you home when you're ready."

  "My brothers would come after me with big sticks if I let you do that. They've become very protective in the last few years.” She took another sip of her drink, grinning at the thought of Marco and Paulie growling and fussing over their baby sister. She loved them dearly, loved them both, but they were like a matched set of short, square bodyguards.

  "Pit bulls, the both of them.” Stroking her wrist with his thumb, he rumbled. “You don't have to tell them."

  Oh ... She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, goose bumps appearing up along her arm. The touch made her dizzy, made her heart pound and her nipples go tight. “You tempt me."

  Tempted her to do more than accept an offer of a ride.

  He rubbed her pulse point. “Do I make you nervous? I'm not trying to."

  "No. Not nervous. I just ... You seem familiar.” Sexy. Arousing. She let her fingers trace the pale, soft hairs on his arm, his wrist. “Do you know me? From work, maybe?"

  "Maybe...” he echoed, shivering for her just like she did for him. “Maybe we're old friends. That's the joy of the masquerade, right?” He touched her tender inner arm, all the way up to the crook of her elbow.

  "I...” She closed her eyes, tongue flicking out to wet her lips. She wanted. So badly. So much. “Yes."

  "Shall I take you home? Or would you like to dance again, here in the shadows?"

  "One more dance?” It would be so easy to get home and see her familiar front porch with the memorial roses planted all along the rail and panic, freeze up. “It's a nice slow song."

  He just nodded, something like sympathy flashing in his eyes before pulling her gently to her feet and into his arms, hand sliding up between her shoulder blades to pull her closer than before. It should've been almost indecently close. Instead it felt good, her breasts brushing his chest, his thigh slipping between hers.

  Oh. Oh, warm. She nestled in, cheek on his shoulder, lips against his throat. He smelled spicy, male. Fascinating. They just rocked together, the music hiding her throaty little moans.

  It didn't quite cover the rumble that rose in his chest, though, vibra
ting against her. And the bulge against her hip rose unmistakable, hard through their clothes, but he never pushed it, never made it anything but hot.

  Liz whimpered, tilting her head to brush her lips against his jaw. “I don't want the song to stop."

  "I don't either.” His lips moved across her cheek, settling on hers, the feeling jolting her to her toes. It was like she knew him, deep down. She did. She had to.

  "Come home with me. I...” She wouldn't beg, but she'd ask. Whoever he was, he'd been paying attention, had seen her.

  "Yes.” He gave her a kiss that stole her breath, tongue dipping between her lips for an all too brief taste. Then he guided her out of the club, out where the night seemed quiet and still, his hand on her waist the only things solid and real.

  Naomi's strappy sandals were dangling from her fingertips, so they didn't move too fast, avoiding the places on the parking lot that were rough. When they came across a broken bottle, he just lifted her up a little, holding her against the strong, wide chest, and carried her over. The action made her laugh, a little giddy. “Oh! My hero."

  He squeezed her so tight for a moment that her breath whooshed out, but then he loosened up like it had never happened. His laugh sounded light, happy. “I try, lady."

  "You're batting a thousand right now.” She dared to reach up, touch the little scar on his lip. “Which one are you driving?"

  "The red Jeep.” It fit, somehow. Shiny, with dark tinted windows, the Cherokee seemed masculine but classy. He set her down next to it, pushing her up against the door to kiss her again, this time more thoroughly, hand sliding into her hair.

  She moaned low, hands sliding up his chest, wrapping around those wide shoulders. Her lips parted, letting him in, letting him taste. Her nipples ached where they rubbed against him, clit throbbing as if begging for a touch, for attention. Even the feel of her back sliding on the slick metal was exciting, the soft satiny material a caress of its own.

  One of his hands, big and strong, cupped her ass, pulling her up against him, starting a whole new dance, the rhythm age old and hard to mistake. Or resist.