Crystal Cove

Memories of the previous night came to her. She had talked without stopping, although it must have been difficult for Jason to make sense of the words wedged between hiccuping sobs. He had held her and listened patiently while she had told him things she never told anyone in her life. Whether Jason believed in anything she had said or not, he had held and comforted her when she had needed it most, and she would always be grateful for that.

  Even now she still couldn’t believe that her own mother had cursed her. A controlling act disguised as love. It was impossible to accept the contradiction of that; there seemed no way to make sense of it.

  “It will never make sense,” Jason had told her, “because it doesn’t.”

  He had sounded so certain that Justine had almost believed him. “Are you sure?” she had whispered, resting in the crook of his shoulder. “Rosemary and Sage believe it was for my own good. Does that put me in the wrong? Do I get to be angry about it?”

  As he had replied, his hand played with her hair, gathering the long wild locks into a single stream. “Justine, whenever someone says ‘this is for your own good,’ it’s a guarantee they’re about to cause you some kind of damage.”

  “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

  “My father used to pound the hell out of me,” he had said. “With plumber’s line, lengths of chain, anything he could get his hands on. But the screwjob wasn’t the beating. The screwjob was when he said it was because he loved me. I always wondered how love could translate into an emergency room visit.”

  Justine had put her arms around him and stroked his hair.

  After a moment Jason had said, “My point is, when someone is hurting you, they can call it whatever the hell they want. They can even call it love. But words lie, actions don’t.”

  There had been a measure of relief in hearing the truth, no matter how painful.

  “You’re not in the wrong,” Jason had murmured. “And you do get to be angry about it. Tomorrow. But for tonight, sleep.”

  Now she lay quietly while fretful wind gusts wrapped around the tower. It had been a long time since Justine had woken up with someone in her bed. Even through the layers of quilts that separated them, Jason radiated heat. A cozy shiver ran through her, and she inched back to fit more snugly against him.

  Jason stirred, his breathing slow and even. His hand came to rest at the side of her rib cage in a reflexive gesture. Ticklish pleasure awakened all along her back and spine.

  It occurred to Justine that this was the first time she had ever slept with a man without having had sex with him first. Jason could have taken advantage of her last night, while she was distraught. But he hadn’t. He’d been a gentleman. She wondered what it would take to make him lose that iron self-control. As she began to roll toward him, the underside of her breast nudged against his hand. The sensation went to the pit of her stomach.

  Jason stretched and moved, sliding his arm more comfortably over her. She felt his breath against the back of her neck, lightly stirring the fine hairs. Was he awake? Should she say something? His hand drifted along her side, fingers cupping beneath her breast. Definitely awake. Excitement pulsed through her as she felt him begin to unbutton the long placket of the nightgown, every movement easy and deliberate.

  His fingers slid beneath the thin white flannel. So gentle … such a contrast to the brutal strength of his grip on her yesterday. Her heart quickened, each heavy thump rolling forward into the next. He cupped her breast, lifting the soft weight, rubbing his thumb over the tip until it gathered into a tight peak. The subtle stimulation pulled up rich throbs from inside.

  “Jason—”

  His forefinger went to her mouth, resting briefly on her lips.

  She felt an openmouthed kiss at the back of her neck, the tip of his tongue touching her skin … tasting her … as if she were some exotic delicacy. He reached into the welter of the white sheets and quilts, grasped a fold of her nightgown, and tugged it up to her waist. Gooseflesh rose on her legs as they were exposed to the cool air. His warm hand slid over her taut stomach, a fingertip tracing the rim of her navel.

  Desperately Justine reached down to grasp his wrist.

  “Patience,” he said against her hair.

  “I can’t just l-lie here like a statue—”

  “Maguro,” he said near her ear, his lips grazing the delicate edge.

  “What?” she asked in bewilderment.

  “The Japanese word for a woman who lies still in bed.” The pitch of his voice was low and morning-roughed. His hand returned to her stomach, rubbing a soothing circle. She felt the shape of his smile against her neck. “Also the word for tuna.”

  “Tuna?” she echoed indignantly, trying to turn over.

  Jason held her in place. Amusement rustled through his voice. “Sushi grade. An expensive delicacy in Japan. Something to savor.”

  “They … they want a woman not to move?”

  Jason pulled away the quilt. “Sexual passivity is considered feminine.” Drawing back the bedclothes, he lay behind Justine, close enough that she could feel the hard muscles of his body beneath the linen shirt and pants. “There’s always a passive partner and an active partner.”

  Her stomach contracted with a sharp pang of anticipation as she felt the jutting pressure of his erection against her bottom. His thigh pressed between hers, holding them open.

  “And the man is always the active partner?” she managed to ask.

  “Of course.” He nuzzled at the side of her neck, while his hand slid into the wild mass of her hair.

  “That’s sexist.” She gasped as his hand gripped the hair close to her scalp, exerting a light but riveting tension. “What are you—”

  “Quiet.” The heat of his breath collected in the shell of her ear. “Don’t ask anything. Don’t move unless I tell you to.” Bringing his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “Be a good girl for me.”

  No one had ever spoken to her that way. Justine would never have expected herself to tolerate it. But she was caught firmly, with his fingers in her hair and his leg holding hers open. She couldn’t seem to breathe fast enough, deep enough. Her muscles went lax, as if she’d been drugged. All she could do was wait, helpless with anticipation and need.

  His hand slid from her hair. He pulled her top leg back, widening the flection of her thighs, and his fingers slid over the tender furrow. Gently he separated the fullness, teasing the swollen center. The sensation was so sweetly excruciating that she moaned in surprise. He found an intimate seep of moisture and stroked through it.

  Her thigh muscles tightened and loosened in a rhythm she couldn’t control. A sound of frustration trembled in her throat as his hand pulled away and his thigh withdrew.

  Desperately she twisted to reach for him. “Jason—”

  His fingers touched her lips, a wordless imperative. A light saline perfume rose to her nostrils, the intimate scent of her own body. She fell silent, trembling with confusion and heat, her inner muscles clasping on emptiness.

  “On your back,” he said quietly.

  She obeyed, gasping as he pulled at the open neckline of her gown until her breasts were uncovered and the tight fabric trapped her arms.

  His fully clothed body lowered between her naked thighs. She felt a soft touch on her breast … his mouth … surrounded by the electrifying roughness of morning bristle. He covered the tip and tugged lightly, and stroked with his tongue. She gritted her teeth to hold back the plangent sounds rising in her throat.

  “Open for me,” he said against her breast.

  Her legs parted, revealing a slow leak of wetness.

  “Wider.”

  She obeyed, burning with embarrassment, aroused beyond anything she had ever thought possible. His thumb came to rest at the center of sensation, stroking and tickling with butterfly lightness. Craving more pressure, dying for it, she hitched upward against his hand.

  Instantly his touch was withdrawn.

  She sobbed his name, her hips lowering,
her hands clenching at her sides. Jason waited, his discipline absolute. The silence was punctured only by the agitated gusts of her breathing. Pleading words hovered at her lips … Do something. Anything. After what felt like an eternity, he touched her again, parting the fervid flesh, massaging gently. Tension gathered like folds of silk, layering until it accumulated in the weight of pleasure.

  He slid two fingers in her, his touch gentle but insistent. She felt him stretching her. Another finger, the inner pressure uncomfortable. She began to protest, but he wouldn’t stop, thrusting slowly as he told her that she would take everything he gave her, and then he slid lower on her body, licking and nibbling. She was lost, her breath coming in sobs and gasps.

  His mouth closed over her tender flesh in a long sucking kiss. She cried out and shuddered, unable to stop the rush, unable to control anything. More visceral sensation, and more, until she thought she would pass out, but instead she was pushed into a lush, hot, briary release that bore no resemblance to the weak spasms she’d felt in the past.

  The feeling came from all directions, coursing wildly through her. Gradually it broke into slow-ebbing ripples. His tongue rested on her, soothing every intimate quiver and twitch. His fingers flexed inside her. Justine moaned, her body replete.

  But he wasn’t finished. He pressed deeper, more of a pulse than a thrust, over and over. Using his mouth, he built the sensations with fiendish patience, staying with her, not letting her twist away. Unbelievably, the heat was flooding her again. “No,” she whispered, certain that she couldn’t survive it again, but he wouldn’t stop, only drove her ruthlessly into another climax. By the time he had finished, she was limp and half conscious.

  Pressing a kiss to the skin of her inner thigh, Jason left the bed and went into the bathroom.

  As she heard the shower running, Justine sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes. “What about your turn?” she asked dazedly, but he didn’t hear her over the running water.

  Standing on unsteady legs, Justine went to the bathroom and opened the glass stall. She flinched as a mist of cold water hit her face. He was taking a cold shower, his body facing away from her to allow the spray to hit his chest and run downward over his aroused body. He was a magnificent sight, his skin honey colored under a shimmer of water, his shoulders and back and buttocks a mass of bulging muscle.

  “Jason,” she said, bewildered, “why are you doing that? Come back to bed. Please—”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “We don’t have condoms.”

  Justine steeled herself against the chilling spray and reached into the stall to turn up the water temperature. When it had warmed sufficiently, she stepped into the shower with him. She embraced him from behind, pressing her cheek on his smooth back. “We don’t need condoms,” she said. “I’m on birth control.”

  His tone was vaguely apologetic. “I always use them. A personal rule.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Flattening herself against his back, she savored the heat of the water rushing over them both, as if they were one being instead of two. Her hands slid slowly around his middle, palms riding the unsettled pattern of his breathing. Carefully her fingers investigated the subtle depressions between the sturdy framework of his ribs.

  Her blind exploration progressed to the coarse silk of body hair, a fine pathway leading to a denser, thicker patch. He tensed in every muscle as her hand closed around hard, distended flesh. She caressed him up and down, gripping at intervals.

  A harsh gasp escaped him, and another, and he turned in the slender compass of her arms to grip her body high and tight against his. She was lifted nearly off her toes, her weight pitched forward. He ground against her abdomen in water-slicked thrusts, and in a matter of seconds he muffled a low growl into the wet ribbons of her hair. Pleasure unraveled in the heat of constant rushing water, rushing and receding, leaving them entangled and spent.

  Eventually Justine thought that she should unwrap herself from around him, but Jason seemed in no hurry to let go. And she wasn’t certain where to start anyway … there seemed no way to separate out which limbs and hands and heartbeats belonged to whom.

  * * *

  Mercifully, breakfast was not a long sit-down meal. Instead Rosemary had set out food on the kitchen counter: fig muffins, sliced fruit, and plain yogurt made at a local dairy. Although Justine was tempted to maintain an injured silence, she found herself joining in the casual conversation, all of them covering the underlying tension as if with a tarpaulin.

  She had been deceived by Rosemary and Sage, but that didn’t negate all the good things they had done for her in the past. She loved them. She wasn’t sure how her trust in them could be restored. But love was not something that could be thrown away easily. Even imperfect love.

  Besides, it was awfully hard to act cool and resentful when she was basking in an afterglow that wouldn’t quit, her nerve endings glowing like fiber-optic filaments. She kept glancing at Jason, who looked athletic and sexy in the T-shirt and board shorts that Sage had washed for him. Every now and then he sent her a brief, private smile that made her light-headed. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, her senses told her. This is what you were missing. And she wanted more.

  Only one thing nagged at the edge of her afterglow: the question of where all this was leading. She didn’t want to think about that, since the obvious answer was … nowhere. They had met at the intersection of two divergent paths. Jason’s fast-paced lifestyle held absolutely no appeal for Justine. And whenever she tried to imagine a place for him in the low-key pattern of her days, she couldn’t fathom it.

  So the question wasn’t whether the relationship would last. Clearly they weren’t destined for a happily-ever-after. But Justine wouldn’t mind dragging out the “happily” part for as long as possible. The strange thing was, even knowing they could never be together couldn’t stop her from feeling connected to him on a level that had nothing to do with reason. Almost as if they were soul mates.

  But how could you be soul mates with a man who had no soul?

  “The storm surge has died down,” Jason said after breakfast. “There’s some chop to the water, but nothing the Bayliner can’t handle. It’s your call, Justine. If you want to leave later in the day, that’s fine.”

  “No, I need to get back to the inn,” Justine said, although her stomach turned over at the thought of getting back onto a boat and heading out across that rough water.

  Jason stared at her for a long moment. “It’ll be fine,” he said gently. “You don’t think I’d let anything happen to you, do you?”

  Surprised that he could read her thoughts so easily, Justine gave him a round-eyed glance and shook her head.

  “Justine,” Sage said quietly. “Before you leave, we have something for you.”

  Following her to the sofa, Justine sat with her, while Rosemary stood at the threshold. Jason remained at the window, his arms folded negligently across his chest.

  “We went to Crystal Cove at sunrise,” Sage told Justine, “to cast a protection spell. It’s not permanent, and we don’t know how much it will help, but it certainly won’t hurt. Wear this to strengthen its effects.” She gave Justine a bracelet made of chunks of pink translucent stone strung together in a glittering circle.

  “Rose quartz?” Justine slid the bracelet over her wrist, holding it up to admire the beauty of the crystals.

  “A balancing stone,” Rosemary said from the doorway. “It will help to harmonize the spirits and protect you from negative energy. Wear it as often as possible.”

  “Thank you,” Justine managed to say, although she was strongly tempted to point out that she wouldn’t have needed protective spells or crystals if they hadn’t helped create the geas in the first place.

  “Wear it for Jason’s benefit, as well,” Sage said, with a nod in his direction. “We tried to extend the spell to him.”

  “Why would Jason need protection?” Justine asked warily. “He had nothing to do with breaking the geas.”


  “There is one more thing you haven’t been told about,” Sage said. “There wasn’t a need before now. But since the geas has been broken, there is a particular danger that you must be made aware of.”

  “I don’t care if I’m in danger. Don’t tell me.”

  “You’re not the one in danger,” Rosemary informed her. “He is.”

  Justine glanced at Jason’s expressionless face. She looked back at the elderly women, feeling sick inside.

  “I’ll explain,” Rosemary said. “As you already know, Justine, the universe demands balance. For the power that a hereditary witch enjoys, a price must be paid.”

  “I don’t enjoy it,” Justine said. “I’d give it away if I could.”

  “You can’t. It’s part of you. And like the rest of us, you will pay a forfeit.”

  “What forfeit?”

  “Any man a witch truly loves is fated to die. The Tradition calls it the witch’s bane.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Being born to the craft is a calling,” Sage said. “A commitment to serving others, not unlike the vocation of a nun. I don’t know when or how the bane originated, but I’ve always thought that it was to ensure that we would not be distracted by the demands of husbands and families.”

  It was too much to take in, especially after the other revelations of the past twenty-four hours. Justine drew up her knees and rested her head on them, and closed her eyes. “Because it’s not at all distracting to have the man you love die,” she muttered.

  “Marigold wanted to spare you that suffering,” Sage said. “And it’s the reason that I, perhaps wrongly, helped with the geas. I thought it would be easier for you to be relieved of such a burden. Never to know the pain of lost love.”

  Jason had been listening with a wry twist to his lips. “Everyone’s fated to die, sooner or later,” he said.

  “In your case,” Rosemary replied, “probably sooner. You’ll be fine for a time. No one can predict how long. But one day the misfortunes will begin … you’ll fall ill, or there’ll be an accident. And if you manage to survive that, something will happen the next day, and the next, until finally it’s something that you won’t survive.”