InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Tempestuous ( Chapter 28 )

Ashur paced the foyer floor, waiting for Jessa to make her appearance.  He'd offered to take her into the city to see Ghosts of Olde at Margreave Hall, mostly to distract her since she'd been uncharacteristically quiet since he'd told her about everything.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead as he slowly shook his head.  He still wasn't sure that telling her was a good idea, but, in his mind, the pros had outweighed the cons in this situation.  After all, she needed to know why she should be on alert.  Still,  Cain had offered to talk to the MacDonnough, see if he couldn't put some weight on the European tai-youkai without giving away Jessa's current location.  Ashur had called the consulate as well as the O'Shea family lawyer in Ireland to explain to them both why there was a need to keep Jessa's whereabouts as quiet as possible.

He supposed he could use the distraction of the theatre, too.  After all the phone calls, all the haggling, explaining everything over and over again . . . He felt emotionally drained, which was worse than anything else, really.

So, he'd suggested the theatre in hopes that they could both forget about everything, at least, for a little while.   He'd even opted to wear a full suit for the occasion—something he rarely ever did.

He turned around at the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, only to do a double take as she slowly descended, eyes shining, an air of excitement surrounding her. Her hair was pulled up and back into a very smooth twist.  It was all neatly pulled back with just enough poof on top to soften it around her face, but what held him captive was the sight of her long, long legs left exposed by the tiny bit of skirt that only extended down to her upper thighs, of the black velvet dress that fit her ridiculously well.  The low dip of the sweetheart neckline displayed her cleavage in an absolutely sinful kind of way, the cap sleeve just barely hugging her thin shoulders . . .  All in all, he wasn't sure if he wanted to order her to go back upstairs and change into something that provided a little more coverage, or if he just wanted to drag her into his arms and kiss her silly . . .

"You look very nice," she said as she stepped off the last stair and hurried over to him, taking her time as she straightened his tie that he hadn't realized needed straightening at all.  "There . . ."

"Thank you," he said, noting that she was actually wearing a hint of makeup—something she normally didn't do, mostly because she honestly didn't need it.  "Shouldn't I be the one to compliment you?  And you look . . . beautiful."

She bit her lip but smiled almost timidly as a slight blush rose in her cheeks, as the smile added a heightened brightness to her crimson-brown gaze.  Peering up through her gorgeously long and thick eyelashes at him, she reached up, idly fingering the cross necklace that Carol had given her for her birthday.  "Thank you," she replied.  Her smile flickered and faded, though, as her expression took on a more somber shift.  "Are . . . Are you sure that it's a good idea?  Going out in public like this?"

He grimaced inwardly, hating the seriousness that had nudged aside the excitement that he'd initially felt from her.  Even understanding that she really did need to know didn't help much, either.  It was a pretty sad bit of consolation, especially when he'd wanted to get her mind off of it for a little while.  "You're safe enough with me, Jessa," he told her, grasping her hand and leading her toward the front door.  "No one else really knows where you are, exactly, and the attorney as well as the consulate's office understand that they cannot give your location to anyone else, should Kingston try to get information."

"It feels like a small consolation," she murmured, waiting for him as he locked the door.  He turned around in time to see her, looking around carefully, cautiously—almost nervously, and he drew a deep breath before putting a hand on the small of her back and escorting her off the porch and toward the car.

He didn't say anything until they'd gotten into the car and were pulling down the long driveway.  "Try to put it out of your mind for tonight," he told her.  "I'll protect you.  Do you trust me?"

She didn't answer, and he frowned.  The silence in the car, heavy, despite the low hum of the radio, grew and thickened, and in that silence, Ashur tried to remind himself that he really hadn't known her that long, that he really had no grounds on which to ask her to trust him, especially in something as important as this.

It didn't really help, though, and the irritation, the unintentional hurt that grew, only seemed to multiply in his head . . .

In his heart.

Margreave Hall was a beautiful, opulent theatre, built not far from the Parc du Bastion-de-la-Reine, easily rivaling some of the most classic and beautiful theatres in Europe.  From the marble floors, stairs, columns, the rich fabrics that were demure, yet elegant, old framed show posters, dating back to the opening of the theatre, the ambience of the place surrounded them from the moment they'd walked in the doors, held open by two very stately-looking doormen who had smiled and nodded at each patron in passing.

"I'll protect you.  Do you trust me?"

That was the one thing that rattled through Jessa's mind throughout the show, making it hard for her to think, to concentrate on anything at all except what had to be the million-dollar question . . .

She hadn't answered him when he'd asked her that.  In truth, she wasn't entirely sure how to answer it.  It was true, he'd done a lot of things for her since she'd moved in with him and after their rocky start, but she couldn't say that she trusted him yet, either.  If she discounted the first couple weeks of her residence, when they hadn't gotten along very well and had subsisted on simply being cautiously polite, she'd only really gotten to know him a little better in the last three months, and even then, if she really thought about it, just how much did she actually know about him?

'Nothing; not really . . .'

And therein lay the problem, didn't it?

'Aren't you being a little harsh?'

Jessa frowned at the accusing tone in her youkai-voice.  'Am I?  I don't know a thing about him, other than he loves Kells beyond all reason and that he is Kells' brother biologically.'

'And those are pretty good things, you know.  It means that he loves that lad, and that he'd do anything for him, don't you think?  I mean, strictly speaking, you can learn a lot about someone, just by seeing how they treat children.'

'Yeah, but it's odd, isn't it?'

'What's odd?'

'Well, think about it.  Why would he have adopted Kells?  Siblings raise each other all the time, sure, but to adopt his brother? Why would he have found that to be necessary?'

'Who knows?  If it bothers you so much, why don't you ask him?  It's been a while since you asked about it the last time.  Maybe he'll give you more answers now.'

She sighed, slipping her eyes to the side to surreptitiously glance at Ashur.  He was sitting up, ramrod straight, staring dead ahead at the stage, countenance utterly blanked.  He could be staring at a wall, watching paint dry, for all the emotion on his face, and she grimaced inwardly.  She'd also have to be completely stupid to not sense the tension in him.  Maybe he was trying to hide it.  She didn't know, but if he were, then he was failing miserably.

No, she rather doubted that he would be giving her any more answers, any time soon, if his expression meant anything at all . . .

'You need to talk to him,' her youkai said.  'I think . . . I think he's angry that you didn't give him any kind of answer.'

She sighed inwardly.  The answer would have been worse, wouldn't it?  Even so, there was some truth to her youkai-voice's statement.  She did need to talk to him, to at least explain why she couldn't answer that question yet, but . . . But she wanted to, didn't she?  And maybe that was the most surprising part of it.  After feeling so isolated and alone for so long, even before her father had died, well before her mother had, too: it was a feeling, that had stretched back well into her childhood—her lack of friends, her sense of always being alone—and back then, it was okay because she had her horse, Derry to keep her company.  She'd learned not to depend upon anyone, but herself, not even her beloved father, since she'd reached that age where Da couldn't fix everything, and she'd come to understand that he had enough things to deal with on his own. Boarding school had seemed so far away, too, that she felt like she couldn't lay her problems at his feet, anyway.  That was when she'd learned to solve things for herself, and if she couldn't, she'd always been able to simply ignore the people and the issues that troubled her.  Somehow, along the way, it had become so ingrained in her that she'd forgotten how to lean on anyone, and the idea of trusting someone else—of becoming dependent upon another person . . . It was difficult, but . . . She . . . She wanted to trust Ashur.  She didn't know why.  There wasn't an easy way to explain her feelings.

That was the real problem, wasn't it?  Just how in the world could she possibly make him understand something that she didn't, not really . . .?

Ashur closed the door behind himself with a stifled sigh as he reached over and touched the panel to lock everything up for the night.  Dropping his keys on the nearby table, he strode past the living room and down the short hallway to his office as he yanked off his tie and dropped it carelessly over the back of one of the chairs facing the desk, followed in short order by the formal jacket.

He let out a breath in a heavy gust, rolling up his sleeves a couple times as he rounded the desk and flopped down in the chair, figuring he might as well catch up on his correspondences since he was entirely too agitated to even think about going to bed any time soon.

He couldn't honestly tell anyone just what the show was about.  He'd spent the entire time, thinking and thinking and growing more and more irritated by the second, to the point that the smallest thing likely could set him off in a blind rage now if he didn't find some way to refocus his energy.

Rubbing a hand over his face in an infinitely weary sort of way, he waited impatiently for the computer to boot and opened his email first: a good thirty messages from various people who wanted to introduce themselves or just wanted to welcome him to the region.  He had drafted a form thank you letter a week ago or more, which made it much simpler to reply to these emails . . .

"Ashur?"

He couldn't help the way he sat up a little straighter, how his back stiffened at the sound of Jessa’s voice.  Gritting his teeth, he thought about ignoring her for a moment, but he sighed when he realized that he really couldn't do that, not to her, no matter how bruised his ego might be.

"Yes?" he asked without looking away from the computer monitor.

Her sigh was soft, quiet.  "I . . . I wanted to thank you for taking me to the theatre," she said.

His sigh was much, much louder.  "It was nothing," he told her, still refusing to look at her.

She didn't speak for a few moments, as though she were trying to get a read on Ashur's mood.  Deliberately tamping down his emotions, he stubbornly refused to say anything else, waiting instead for her to either walk away or to say whatever was really on her mind.  "A-About your question," she finally said.  "It's . . . It's not that I don't trust you.  It's just that—"

Standing up so abruptly that his chair flew back until it bumped into the wall, Ashur strode around the desk and brushed past her, and he kept moving until he was standing in the living room with a glass of brandy in his hand.  He started to turn away, but thought better of it, slamming back the drink and sloshing more into the snifter before pacing across the floor.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," she said quietly, her feet making no sound as she stepped toward him.  She hadn't changed clothes yet, but she had removed her shoes.

"You didn't," he stated flatly, emptying the glass for the second time before thumping it down on a side table hard.

"But you seem—"

"I'd have to care for it to hurt me," he blurted before he could stop himself, as his temper snapped—as he regretted the words as they left his lips.

She drew back, as though he had physically slapped her, her gaze igniting in indignant fire as she drew herself up, straight and proud, all traces of her almost meek and apologetic demeanor, fading fast.  "I see," she said, mustering as much dignity as she possibly could, turning on her heel to stride out of the room.  "Rot in hell, Ashur Philips!  You bloody arse!"

"An arse, am I?" he growled as he strode after her, berating himself for his inability to control his temper, even as her words hung in the air as she dashed up the stairs.  He caught her as she tried to slam the door of her bedroom in his face.  "Jessa, stop!" he commanded, not really surprised when she ignored him, throwing her weight against the door to try to close it on him.

He gave the door a good shove, sending her stumbling back, but he caught her before she fell, yanked her hard against his chest.  "You don't trust me," he ground out, his body redirecting the passion of their altercation into another direction entirely, and all in the space of a heartbeat, "but you want me."

She gasped, her eyes flaring wide at what he'd said, and she tried to push against him as his mouth fell on hers, shocking her senses with the taste of cognac and something far headier, decimating her anger as a wave of absolute desire shot through her.  It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before—a purely reactionary wave of unadulterated heat—exploding deep inside her with an unrelenting power, a force that encompassed all that she was, obliterating her objections before they had a chance to form.  The crush of his lips, the hunger that he didn't try to hide from her, only fueled the surging emotion, like a wildfire, swept out of control by a capricious wind.

Drawing her up against him with one arm, the other hand, sinking into her hair, loosening the bobby pins that held it secured as it fell around her: a tangle of curls.  He groaned roughly against her lips, the sound reverberating from him to her, muffled by her mouth as it opened to his demands—the flick of his tongue against hers as her knees threatened to buckle under her—shocking yet beautiful, wild and free . . .

She heard the sound of her zipper being lowered, but it was vague and distant, even as the cooler air, hitting her bared back, registered in her mind in a gauzy way, like trying to see through the fog.  The desire to touch him was far too strong to ignore, and yet, her fingers didn't want to comply as she clumsily fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.  Impatience won out, and she growled as she dug her claws into the fabric, rending it in one deft yank as he jerked her against him again with a growl that could have been a warning, but it was lost in a dizzying wave of need so strong, so inebriating, that anything less was gone in an instant, in another heartbeat.  Fingers slipping over the broad expanse of his chest, of his shoulders, she reveled in the absolute heat that radiated off of his body in waves as muscles rippled under her touch, as she felt the shiver race through him.

Pushing the sleeves of the dress down off of her shoulders, he stepped back, broke the kiss, shaking hands on her arms, pushing the dress down until she pulled her arms free of the garment.  He uttered a  roughened gasp as her breasts sprang free, dropped to his knees as he shoved the dress lower, down her sides, over her hips, catching the sides of her panties, setting off trails of gooseflesh everywhere he touched as the heat of his hands shot through her, converged in the raging fire that threatened to engulf her, and he stood up, quickly discarding his clothing before he lifted her out of the dress that lay forgotten on the floor, kissing her again with such a fervor, a barely contained brutality, shattering what was left of her conscious thought as he laid her on the bed.

Hands on her breasts, kneading them, tugging on them, squeezing and releasing as she writhed and moaned.  His mouth fell over one of them, the burn of his tongue, nearly her undoing as she arched her back off the bed with a sharply indrawn breath, as a strangled sort of cry escaped her.  He was relentless, suckling at her, drawing her in deep, flicking his tongue over her swollen nipple until she thought she would go mad as the ache at the core of her condensed and thickened, beating with a steady throb, a near-painful need, the likes of which she'd never, ever felt before.

Tugging on his shoulders as she writhed beneath him, as she tried to make him understand, she could only hold onto him, could only trust that he knew where they were going, how they were going to get there, that he would lead her where her body demanded.

He rose up against her, his body dragging over hers, as another round of shockwaves ricocheted through her.  She felt that part of him—that stunning, beautiful part of him—as it pulsed against her thigh.  Shifting her hips, unable to control herself as the painful ache spiraled thicker and hotter in her, she gasped as the very tip of him brushed against the part of her that called to him, needed him, so close and yet, not nearly close enough, as she spread her knees a little wider, instinctively inviting him, and he groaned.

His mouth broke away from hers, and she whimpered softly.  "Damn it," he growled, letting his forehead drop against hers as he struggled to regain a semblance of his control.  She turned her face, recaptured his lips, but he groaned and pulled back again.  "We can't . . . I don't have . . . Jessa," he murmured between kisses.

She opened her eyes, unable to make sense of his half-sentences, of his new irritation.  He caught her confused look and slowly shook his head.  "I don't have any condoms," he told her, eyes darkening even more as he stared at her.

She shook her head, vaguely waved a hand at her nightstand.  "Carol . . . there," Jessa replied, unable to piece together a better explanation since her brain was screaming at her to reach for him once more.

He leaned to the side, yanked open the nightstand drawer, pushed himself up into a kneeling position as he grabbed a condom and yanked it open, hands shaking, as she watched him through heavily-lidded eyes.  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought that she shouldn't be watching him so brazenly, and yet, she didn't try to look away, either, as he tossed the empty packet to the side and rolled the condom down on himself.

She reached over, grasped him firmly in her hand.  He sucked in a harsh breath, yanked her hand away roughly, as he rose up, crashed down on her, pinning her hand beside her head, a savage brightness in his gaze as he reached down with his free hand, positioned himself.  Her eyes slipped closed, only to flash open wide when he slammed his hips against hers.  She arched up, cried out, unable to stop the manic tremors that shot through her as the ache inside her burst wide open, as a million explosions culminated in a burst of the sweetest pleasure—pleasure that was only magnified by the hard and rapid thrusts as he rocked his body against hers.  Deeper, faster, as that borderline painful tightening in her wound up again with every push.  He groaned out her name as he stroked her deeply, with a barely contained brutality that she welcomed.  With one last hard thrust, he threw his head back, uttered a terse, choked cry as she rose off the bed once more, only to be slammed back down again, as the tightening in her core gave way again, as the crazy-mad bliss held her, suspended in wave upon earth-shattering wave . . .

She didn't know how long it took her to regain any of her senses.  Gradually, though, she felt him, holding her close against his side, one hand gently holding her shoulder, his thumb idly rubbing circles, the other hand smoothing her hair back off of her face.  He'd rolled over onto his back, and he'd removed the used condom, too, but he didn't seem as though he were in any great hurry to get up, and she was all right with that, too.

Savoring the absolute feeling of closeness, she wondered vaguely, just how long this moment could last.

He sighed.  "That was pathetic," he muttered, sounding duly disgusted.  "Seriously sad . . ."

Her bubble of contentment burst, and she started to roll off of him, ready to seek sanctuary in the bathroom.  He caught her and held her tightly.  "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, sounding a little lethargic, almost bemused.

"Let me go," she whispered, hating the thickness that choked her as she blinked stubbornly and tried to push his arms away.

"Jessa?"

She shook her head, nearing all-out panic as, to her horror, the prickle of tears stung the back of her eyelids.  He let go of her, and she nearly stumbled as she rolled off the bed and hurried to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Ashur leaned on his elbows, frowning at the closed bathroom door as he tried to make sense of Jessa's mercurial mood swing.  It didn't make sense, did it?  'She . . . She wanted that, too . . . didn't she . . .?'

Heaving a sigh since his body was still on high alert, he swung his legs off the bed and sat up, willing himself to calm down since it was pretty obvious that she wasn't interested in a repeat at the moment.  But just what was bothering her . . .?

'What do you mean, what's bothering her?  Are you stupid, Kyouhei?  Seriously?  Or did you forget what you said just after you finished having mind-blowing sex with her?'

He snorted.  'I wasn't talking about the sex.  I was talking about me . . .'

'Yeah, but you didn't say that, and think about how it must have sounded to her, of all people . . .'

"Damn it . . ."

'Yeah, well, you should probably go explain yourself because she was ready to cry, if you didn't notice . . .'

It only took five strides to reach the bathroom door.  He almost expected to find it locked, which wouldn't matter since it was his house, so if he broke the door, he'd just replace it, but it wasn't, and he winced at the smell of her tears, prevalent, even over the scent of the soap she was using in the shower.

Without stopping to think about it, he slipped into the shower as she gasped, as she whipped around to hide herself from him.  He sighed and reached over, pulling the wash cloth from her as he gently pushed her drenched hair over her shoulder and started soaping up her back.  "I'm sorry," he said, hating the way she stood, entirely tense, ready to bolt.  "When I said it was pathetic, I meant me."

She didn't pull away from him, and he figured that was a good sign, but she didn't speak, either, which was probably not.

"I can't remember the last time I lost control like that," he went on.  "I didn't . . . I didn't hurt you . . . did I?"

He didn't miss the way she quickly glanced over her shoulder at him.  "N-No," she said quietly.  "No . . ."

"Good . . . That was the last thing I wanted to do, but you know . . . It really shouldn't have been so rushed, either," he remarked.  "I just . . . I couldn't . . . I couldn't control myself . . ." He sighed and leaned down, kissing the nape of her neck.  She shivered.  "You drive me crazy, you know."

She sniffled.  "Do I?"

Pulling her back against him, wrapping his arms over her stomach, he nodded.  "You do."

"You . . . You don't . . . regret it . . .?"

"No, I don't," he told her.  "Do you?"

She shook her head, finally relaxed against him.  "No."

"Good," he said, letting go of her to reach for her bottle of body wash.

"Are you going to wash me?" she asked, turning her head to peer up at him.  She sounded almost bemused, despite the lingering stuffiness brought on by the tears that he could still hear in her voice.

He nodded, and finally, he smiled.  "Yes.  Yes, I am."