InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Caution ( Chapter 35 )

Jessa sat under the tree, legs drawn up, fingers locked around her ankles, chin resting on her knees, as she stared over the pond without really seeing a thing.  She'd lost track of time in the guise of reading, but she'd given up that hopeless farce a while ago.  The book lay in the grass beside her, forgotten, as the wind stirred her hair, carrying with it the breath of the warm summer sun, the brilliance of a cloudless sky, and it was all lost on her.

He hadn't come to her.

She'd slipped out of the house just after dawn, had taken Stardust and rode, hell-bent for leather, all over the estate, given the animal his head, let him lead her wherever he wanted, and somehow, they'd ended up here.  He was tethered to a nearby tree in the shade, close enough to the water to drink between grazing on the tender grass along the bank of the pond.  Part of her wanted to get back on Stardust, to ride to the ends of the earth.  The other part of her . . . She couldn't deal with the idea of never seeing Kells and Ashur again, and that part of her . . .

"A little early to find you here, isn't it, Irish?"

She blinked, glanced up at Devlin as he tethered Fletch to a tree branch near Stardust, then looked away again.  "Back to normal, are you?" she asked, not really in the mood for company, but hating the thought of being alone again.

"Wasn't I?"

She snorted.  "No, you weren't.  Not around Manami, anyway . . ."

"Manami," he repeated, raking his hands through his hair.  "I just . . . I don't know what it is!  Ever since I saw her once in London, I just . . ." he sighed.  "She's . . . She's perfect . . ."

"No one's perfect," Jessa argued.  "I guess it's cute, though, the way you keep tripping all over yourself around her . . ."

He dug an apple out of his pocket and tossed it to her before producing another from the other side.  "Speaking of perfection . . . You're in a perfectly awful mood, aren't you?" he mused.  "Have a falling out with dear Ashur?"

"I hate men," she muttered, refusing to acknowledge the half-truth in his guess.  "You're all stupid and boorish and . . . and you don't keep your promises . . . Liars, the lot of you . . ."

"Ouch," he drawled.  She could feel him staring at her, and he scooted over beside her, pulled her against his shoulder, letting his hand rest on her back.  "All right," he said in his typical English drawl.  "You're about two curses from crying.  Let's have it."

She shoved against him, but he wrapped his arm a little more securely around her, and she sighed, letting her head fall against his chest, but her eyes remained hot, dry.  "It's stupid," she mumbled.  "Just . . ."

"And I say, if it's got you this far into a snit, then it's not stupid; it's something.  So, tell Big Brother what's bothering you."

"My big brother would be Irish," she scoffed.

"I can't do accents," he told her.

She rolled her eyes, breaking into a half-smile.  "Idiot."

He chuckled.  "You'll feel better if you talk about it."

She sighed, relaxing against him, idly rubbing the apple in the hem of her shirt.  "I just . . . I wish I knew where I stand—If I stand at all . . ."

"Have you tried talking to him?  I mean, strictly speaking, you are right about one thing: men are a little dull at times, and, as a rule, we cannot read your minds.  Sometimes we'd like to, but sadly . . . Well, you get the gist of it."

"It's not that simple," she told him.  "The other night, we went to dinner, and there was this . . . this woman, and if you had seen her . . ." She flinched.  "She was stunning—absolutely gorgeous—and . . . He knew her.  She came over, and they . . ." She shook her head, made a face.  "I think it was an argument.  I don't know . . ." She sighed, burying her face against her knees for a moment as she tried to make sense of what she'd seen.

"What do you mean, you don't know?  An argument is a pretty easy thing to recognize."

"They were speaking a different language," she said.  "Japanese, maybe; I didn't understand it, but their voices, and he . . . She wasn't angry, but he was—beyond angry, really.  Closer to livid, I guess . . . But you don't get that upset, do you?  Not unless there's something else, something . . . deeper . . ." Turning her face to the side, she stared at Devlin, frowned at the thoughtful scowl on his face.  "The more you care about someone, the worse they can hurt you, right?  And he . . . He was hurting, and I just couldn't ask him . . ."

"He didn't tell you anything about her?"

She shook her head again.  Then she choked out a humorless laugh, so full of derision, of an ugly bitterness, that it sounded more like a screech in her own ears.  "If you saw her, Dev . . . She was so . . . so refined, so graceful, with these . . . these eyes so dark that they were nearly black, this gorgeous, shiny black hair, and just the way she moved, like she was gliding across the floor . . . and she looked at him like . . . like she knew him—really knew him.  I . . . I can't compete with that . . ."

"Do you think it's a competition?" he asked, taking a bite from his apple.  "It's not, you know.  Even people who were once thick as thieves have their falling-outs."

She shook her head again, uttered a long, drawn-out sigh.  "I'm really nothing more than a stupid, stupid little girl," she muttered.

"All right," he said, waving his apple to emphasize his point.  "That'll be enough of that.  Since when do you sit around, feeling sorry for yourself?  And just what good will it do you, anyway, I'd like to know?"

She opened her mouth to argue with him.  His index finger shot straight out under her nose.  "No," he commanded.  "Not unless you're going to drop the whole, 'feel sorry for me crock'.  It's not you, Irish, and you cannot pull it off."

"I'm not," she grumbled, pinning him with a fulminating glower.  "I'm just saying—"

"—Crap," he cut in.  "Utter hogwash.  First off, you're just as beautiful, just as stunning, as any black-haired vamp from Ashur's sordid past.  Second off, you, m'dear, are hardly a little girl.  Third off, if you're not going to demand answers from the man, then you have no business, sitting out here, under a tree, moping about the unfairness of it all, and fourth off?  Eat that apple because I know bloody damn well that you didn't bother to eat anything before you took off this morning—and does Ashur even know where you are?"

She wrinkled her nose, glowered at him, but she bit into the apple without a word, cheeks pinked by the set-down he'd dealt her.  Satisfied that she'd at least eat, he bit into his apple, too, as he flopped onto his back.

"You're hell on a girl's ego," she told him as she took another huge bite of the fruit.

He grunted something entirely unintelligible.

"It's really none of my business, though," she pointed out in what she hoped was a reasonable tone of voice.  "I mean, if you . . . If you were him, and I asked you, what would you say?"

He sighed, tossing the apple core over to his horse.  Fletch retrieved it quite happily and munched it.  "I don't know, Irish.  That is to say, I don't presume to guess exactly what your relationship with Ashur really is, so anything I'd say would be entirely arbitrary."

She stood up, stalked over to feed the rest of the apple to Stardust.  "You're not much help, are you, Devlin?  Kind of useless, if you ask me . . ."

He chuckled.  "I'm sorry," he said, sounding anything but apologetic.  "You know, though, how wrong you are, don't you?"

"About what?" she asked, sitting back down beside him again.

"You don't need to be like anyone else—not this woman from his past, not anyone—and I'd venture to guess that Ashur wouldn't want you to be, anyway.  I mean, I don't know for sure, but . . . " He trailed off and shook his head before pushing himself off the ground to untether Fletch.  "And if I'm wrong—if he really does expect you to be someone you aren't?  The he wouldn't deserve you, anyway, Irish."

She watched as he mounted his horse, as he turned him around before reining him in.  "Where are you going?"

He sighed.  "My darling mother has an appointment today, and since she refuses to learn how to drive . . ."

"I'll text you later," she called after him.  He raised a hand to indicate that he'd heard her, just before he rounded the bend in the path that led back to his estate.

Jessa watched him go and sighed.  Sure, the things he'd said made perfect sense.  That didn't really matter, though, when she had too many questions and no real answers—no way of getting any of those answers when the one person who could tell her was the same person she dared not ask . . .

Ashur sprinted through the trees, ignoring the dampness underfoot, the dew that soaked the hem of his slacks, he gritted his teeth and concentrated on the feel of her.

He should have known.  After his talk with Manami the night before, he'd sat on the sofa, mulling over everything, trying to make sense where sense did not exist, and somewhere along the line, he'd fallen asleep.  When he'd woken up with Kells, jamming his fingers into his eyes, he'd gone to check on Jessa, to apologize for not coming to her as he'd planned, but she was long gone by then, which really just figured.

Manami had told him to go find her, to talk to her, that she'd keep an eye on Kells and would hold off on leaving until he got back.  "Take your time, Ashur . . . I think the two of you need to talk . . ."

He had shot her a darkened scowl and ran out the door, discarding the thought of putting on shoes as he set out at a dead sprint toward the trees . . .

It was unbelievable, wasn't it?  Just how many times did he have to warn her, not to take off by herself?  But no, whether she forgot or if it just hadn't occurred to her . . . Maybe she just thought that she'd ignore his warning . . .

And even as that thought flashed through his head, he discarded it.  No, as impetuous and naïve as she was, Jessa wasn't the kind to willfully disregard a warning, either, and he knew that . . . Too bad his irritation was fast overriding his common sense, and, as he broke through the trees near the pond, he skidded to a stop in the damp grass, spotted the wild disarray of her stunning hair—and he felt his temper snap.

Striding over to her, he grabbed her arms, yanked her up off the ground, ignoring the sharp gasp as her eyes flared wide, as he gave her a solid shake.  "Where the hell have you been?" he thundered, unable to rein in the need to yell.  "I told you—I warned you!  Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Suddenly, though, he let go of her, stared in almost a disengaged sort of way as the sleeve of his shirt exploded in flame.  Before he could panic or anything else, though, the knowledge that her fire didn't actually hurt registered in his mind.

"Shake me again, Ashur Philips, and I'll burn you for real," she warned, narrowing her gaze at him as she rubbed her arms, as she stepped away.

Struggling to tamp down the rampant irritation that still flicked at the edges of his self-imposed calm—a temerarious calm, at best—he said nothing, planting his hands on his hips as the fabric of the shirt burned away.  "Cute, Jessa," he growled, unwilling to take a step toward her, knowing that the hold he had on his temper wouldn't last if he did.  "Did I not warn you that you could easily be a target if you're out on your own?"

"I needed the air," she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest as she kept rubbing her forearms.

He snorted.  "Is this how it's always going to be?  I tell you something, and you deliberately ignore me because you . . . need air . . .?"

She stared at him for a long moment, gaze narrowed, as though she were trying to see inside his head.  She must have drawn some sort of conclusion because she nodded once, turning on her heel to stomp over to the horse.  Ashur strode over, caught her arm to swing her back around.  "No."

"No?"

He shook his head.  "You're not walking away from me," he said.  "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she said, and if it weren't for the way her eyes sparked dangerously, he might well have believed her.

He snorted.  "Is this about last night?  I fell asleep on the sofa—I'm sorry."

For some reason, his apology sparked her temper; he could see it in the flare of her eyes.  Ducking seconds before she shot a ball of fire off her palm, he uttered a loud curse as he snatched her up, as he strode out into the water, holding onto her despite her flailing attempts to regain her freedom, and when he reached about mid-thigh, he dropped her.

She screamed as she hit the water, came up sputtering, wiping moisture from her eyes with balled-up fists.  He stood back, arms crossed over his chest as she flung water at him, as she screamed every swear she knew and every one she could make up—entirely unladylike, and yet . . . Something about the act of dunking her had completely quelled his own irritation, and he almost smiled—almost—when she finally stood up, hip-deep in the pool, glaring daggers at him while her hair stuck to her face, her neck, as she stomped her foot in unspent temper—and yet, in his eyes, she'd never been quite as glorious as she was in that moment, either . . .

"I hate you!" she screamed, smacking her fists into the water with every word.  "You're such an ass!  A complete and utter—"

"You're beautiful," he replied as the smile he'd been holding back finally managed to surface.

She stopped as his words sank in, her gaze slowly rising to meet his.  From the short distance, he could see the way her lips trembled, the slight quiver of her nostrils, the reflected light awash in her eyes as a sudden sheen of unshed tears added a luster, a brilliance, and she slowly shook her head.

He took the few steps that separated them, pulled her into his arms without much of a fight.  She stood, stiff, resistant, for a moment, but as quickly as her anger had come, it dissolved with a sigh, with a tiny whimper when he leaned down, when he kissed her . . .

Her arms reached out, encircling his neck, the soggy sleeves of her sweater dripping water down over him like rain as he ignored the unpleasant chill of her wet clothing, concentrating instead on the feel of her, of her fire, of her passion.  Everything about her spoke to him in whispers and murmurs and the thunder of the blood running through his veins.

He leaned down, lifted her up, carried her back to the shore under the shade of the trees.  Lowering her to the grass, he didn't break the kiss: a thousand little playful nips, the scrape of her fangs on his lips, the flick of her tongue, the warmth of her sighs . . . Her claws, dragging over his chest, not enough to draw blood, hard enough to send a shockwave rattling right through him . . .

She rose against him, the call of her body a nearly palpable thing—impossible for him to ignore . . . The effort was wasted before it was ever expended.  It occurred to him in some vague sort of way, through the haze and the burgeoning desire that threatened to engulf him in her flames . . . Something about them was inevitable, and the notion of fighting it . . .

Her hands slid down his chest, his stomach, gliding over the muscles that jerked at her touch.  She moaned softly, the sound lost in the kiss, and she reached for the button, the zipper on his rumpled and soaked pants as he leaned on his elbows, fingertips tracing the gentle swell of her cheekbones, of her jaw, pushing himself lower, tasting the saltiness of her skin, kissing a trail down along her collarbone, savoring the taste of her on his lips, on this tongue . . .

She shoved at the back of his pants, pushed them down over his hips as he raised his pelvis just enough to help her, not nearly enough to break the contact of their bodies.  It was enough to placate her for the moment, and he gasped, harsh and loud, as her hands encircled the thickness of him, as she squeezed him tight, only to release the tension as she slowly stroked him.  He growled as he rolled off of her, gritted his teeth as he slipped out of her grip, as he yanked the clinging pants off, half-inside out.

He started to toss them aside, but stopped as the half-forgotten memory of yesterday, of the condom he'd stuck in his pocket, flashed through his head.  It was still there—thank God—and he started to turn, to grab Jessa once more, only to freeze for a moment when he realized that she'd managed to discard her own clothes while he was wrestling with his pants.  Stretched out in the grass on her side, propped up on her elbow, the fire that was banked in her eyes could have incinerated him where he sat.  Cheeks flushed, lips darkened to a smudged rouge, swollen from their kisses, slightly parted as she breathed, perfectly rounded breasts, rising and falling, rosy nipples, darkening, hardening under his unabashed perusal, one leg bent, hiding that part of her that beckoned him in silent and brilliant invitation . . .

She pushed herself up, her other hand coming down on the grass as she rose onto her knees, as she crawled toward him, her gaze locked with his, and he couldn’t look away.  She pushed his shoulders until he fell back, leaned over him as her hair fell over her shoulders, as the moisture that still clung to her locks tickled his skin, as she kissed him long, slow . . . as her hands wrapped around him again, her tongue stroking his as the circle of her fingers pumped him in the same rhythm . . .

And slowly, she kissed her way down his body, leaving him unable to do anything as she systematically destroyed his defenses, laid waste to any misgivings, drove every single thought out of his head . . . The velvet of her tongue, the primordial heat of her breath, the silken fire of her mouth closed over him, drew him deep, wrung a moan from him as it stilled his lungs, singed the blood that ripped through his veins, setting off every nerve, every synapse, in his body, in his brain.  Digging his fingers deep into the downy tangle of her hair, he jerked, he gasped, lifting his hips to plunge himself deeper into her, into the wicked vortex, the suction of heat and fire and light . . .

She pumped him hard, squeezing, releasing, lips wrapped carefully over teeth and fangs, the slickness of her saliva, both cold and so very, very hot, the beauty that was her leaving an indelible imprint upon his soul . . .

Reaching out with clumsy hands, grasping her legs, he tugged her over, let her knees fall on either side of his head, pulling her closer, opening her wide, burying his lips, his tongue in the depths of her, forcing a half-moan, half-scream from her that reverberated through him in a violent shockwave of pleasure.

She shivered, shook, seemed to pulsate around him, her body so vibrant, so alive, and so damned inviting.  Every taste of her left him wanting more, every stroke of his tongue bringing on another wave of moans that shot straight through him, tightening the precarious balance between the thinnest control and the beckoning wash of tortuous pleasure, and the more he savored her, the closer she slipped toward her own oblivion, the more visceral she grew, taking him deeper, the suction of her mouth bordering on painful as one of her hands dropped away, only to squeeze his balls, and, with a ragged cry—one that echoed through her body—he felt himself thicken, felt the tremors, the quivers, the all-consuming tightening that ached, that throbbed, that suddenly released as his body jerked upward, convulsed, erupted in a white-hot gush, enough to choke her as she fought to swallow, enough to leak from her lips, down over him as he gasped and moaned and struggled to breathe.  She broke the suction, only to lick him clean.  Somewhere in the haze of his brain, he tried to tell her no, to stop, but he couldn’t form the words . . .

It took only a moment for him to gather his wits.  Shifting his hold on her, plunging his finger, deep inside her, he flicked the tip of his tongue over her.  She rose on her knees, her head falling back as she cried out, her body shaking, quaking around his finger as she rocked her hips against him.

She crumpled to the side, staring at him in a dazed sort of way, eyes darkened to nearly black as he groped for the condom that had fallen from his hand.  Pushing himself up, he tore the packet open, rolled the condom into place as he leaned down to kiss her.  She uttered a little cry, almost a sob, as she kissed him back, her lips opening to him as the taste of their bodies mingled together on their tongues.  Reaching down, he carefully pulled her up onto her knees, scooted in behind her, breaking the kiss as he reached under her, as he grasped her breasts in his hands, as he slammed into her hard.

She screamed, her head rearing back as her body arched down, as she brought her ass up high, meeting the thrust of his body with a crazy-mad force of her own.  "My name," he growled as he drove into her.  "Say it . . ."

"A . . . Ash . . ." she squeaked.  "Oh, God . . ."

He uttered a territorial kind of laugh that turned into a long, drawn-out groan as he felt that familiar tightening, all over again.  She was so wet, so tight, so incredibly hot, he couldn't control it, couldn't stop himself.  Straightening up, grasping her hips, he gave up the attempt to prolong it, bearing into her as hard and as fast as he could as her body convulsed around him again, as his name tumbled from her lips, as hers did from his . . .

And he couldn't stop, either, despite the gush, the flow.  Jessa slid forward, her breathing so shallow, so labored . . . He leaned forward, catching himself on his hands before letting himself fall to the side as he pulled her close, kissed her cheek, rocking his hips against her ass, kissing her throat as she whined and whimpered and whispered his name, over and over again . . . Reaching down, grasping her knee, he lifted her leg, shifted his knee between them.  She instinctively ground herself against him, their bodies moving together, creating a beautiful rhythm, a breathtaking flow . . .

"You're mine, Jessa," he whispered in her ear, nipped at her earlobe.  "Only mine . . . My Amaterasu . . ."

"Y . . . Yes," she murmured, eyes closed, one hand grasping his hip, the other wrapped over his arm that held her close.  "Yes . . ."

She cried out again, grinding herself against his knee as a surge of male pride shot through him, but he didn't have time to savor it.  Her orgasm was harsh, intense, constricting the muscles in her body around him, painfully—inebriating and dark, and he grunted, growled, couldn't hold on as his own release followed fast on hers, leaving him reeling, leaving him reaching . . .

Leaving him breathless . . .