Zane (The Powers That Be, Book 6) Read online

  “May I?” he inquired when he got to the glider.

  I scooted over a bit and nodded again, his entire presence making me mute. But I reminded myself that any minute he’d open his mouth and expose himself to be the dumb jock he surely was.

  He sat, then nodded toward the ice chest. “Guess you took the BYOB thing pretty seriously, huh?”

  I snorted out a laugh. “No, some guy put it here and told me to guard it with my life,” I teased. “But he did say I could have all I want, so would you like a beer?”

  “Depends on what it is,” he stated, eyebrows raised.

  I opened the lid and pulled out a beer, handing it to him.

  “Elysian Immortal. Dude’s got good taste,” he said with a wink, and twisting off the top, took a drink while I stared at his lips on the bottle.

  Sweet Mary, he was hot.

  Holding the top, he set the bottle on his thigh and tilting his head, skimmed his eyes over my multicolored hair. “I’m Zane Powers. And you must be…Syrena?”

  I laughed because that was a new one. “Jillian. Most people say ‘Ariel’ but you surprised me.”

  “Pirates of the Caribbean fan.” He chuckled.

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I’ve never seen you around campus. How come we’re just now meeting?” he asked.

  “Must be fate,” I uttered before blathering, “Did you know that in most ancient religions, the fates were females who the people thought controlled their destinies? How's that for girl power?" I raised my arm and shook my fist stupidly then chuckled nervously, feeling my face get hot.

  What the heck? I never got nervous around guys, but he was making me feel a bit off-balance for some reason, and I was pretty sure it was because he was good looking. Lord. How shallow was I?

  “That is something.” He gave me a crooked smile. “Yet most of those religions have died away.”

  That made me laugh. “What? Okay, how about Wiccan goddesses? Or…Voodoo priestesses!”

  “Religions that are considered minor.” He smirked then took a long pull on his beer looking out at the partyers.

  Well, this was new. Could he be someone who might actually match my wits? I sat studying him since he was seriously a more than nice looking guy. Dark, caramel-colored hair that lay haphazardly on his head, light golden-brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled, a ruggedly handsome face with a chiseled jawline, a nose that was just a tad crooked, and definitely a nice, hard body.

  Then trying to outdo his previous statement, I smugly replied, "Hindus believe all male power comes from the feminine."

  "They also believe if you kill a bug you might be killing Great Aunt Martha's reincarnated soul," he retorted, still watching the people on the lawn.

  "You know a lot about religion. What are you, a priest?"

  He barked out a laughed and looked over at me like I was crazy, his eyebrow raised. "Oh, I'd definitely have to say far from it."

  The way he said that, his voice so suggestive, so smooth, so friggin’ sexy, made my womb dip and I almost let out a little moan at the reminder that I hadn’t had sex in a very long time. Damn. As I watched him, I thought about what Izzy had said—he could be my summer fling. I’d sleep with him, have a good time, then never see him again. Sounded like a win-win-win to me.

  So keeping our intriguing conversation going, I declared with a snort, "But you seem to know so much about religion. I might need to start confessing to you now, asking you to bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

  "You'll find no absolution here. Sorry," he said, suddenly somber, now looking intently at the label on his bottle and I saw a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched it.

  My brow came down as I wondered what his change in demeanor was all about, but trying to keep things light, I knocked his shoulder with mine and offered, "Well, damn. Guess I'd better call Father O’Malley and set up a time then."

  There was definitely sexual tension between us, or at least there was on my end. And I knew he’d felt it too when he looked at me and said, “Wanna get out of here?”

  I nodded. “I need to call my friend first.”

  “You do that. I’ll get my car.” He gave me another sexy smirk before standing, and when he turned to go, ahhh, there was that nice ass of his again, looking perfect in his jeans.

  Right before he got to the steps, he glanced back to catch me staring in admiration, and giving me another wink, caused my panties to flood.

  Crap! Holy crap!

  I was going to come just from a frigging wink from a hot guy! I really needed to get out more often.

  I waited until he was out of earshot before calling Izzy, who I knew would freak out at what I was going to tell her.

  “You doing okay?” she answered.

  For some reason I found myself whispering, “I’m fine. I’m, uh, I’m leaving with Zane Powers.”

  I jerked the phone away from my ear at her squeal, cursing myself because I should’ve known it was coming, but I’d gone temporarily braindead because of a hotter-than-hell-nice-assed-winking guy. Sheesh.

  When all squealing ceased, she assured me, “This is perfect! You’re finally getting laid and you’re leaving so you don’t have to worry about dealing with a dumb jock!” She giggled at her emphasis of the sketchy phrase I’d thrown around rather loosely and probably unfairly.

  I chuckled with her not entirely convinced that Zane fit that profile.

  “He seems pretty smart,” I declared.

  “Maybe he is; maybe he isn’t. But you’re not looking for anything serious, remember?” she reminded me. “And, JB?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go have fun!”

  I was hanging up when a very cool, but very non-energy-efficient muscle car pulled up to the curb, and I canted my head to the side, trying to see if it was Zane. When the door opened with a creak and I saw long athletic legs appear, I knew it was him because there went my heart again, pitter-pattering like crazy. God, I was going to pass out before I even made it past first base with this guy.

  Blowing out a breath, I stood and made my way to the steps then down where he met me, and reaching out his hand, took mine and led me to the passenger side of his car where he opened the door and helped me in. After walking around and getting into the driver’s side, he grabbed my hand again while dexterously shifting the car into gear, and we took off after I told him where I’d parked. He pulled up parallel to my car, got out, opened my door, opened my own car’s door after I unlocked it from my keychain, and when I was in, he told me to follow him. I nodded and did as he said. Driving two blocks down and three to the left, I saw him pull into the drive of a house with no lights on. I parked behind him and before I could even turn the ignition off, he met me at my car door, helped me out, held my hand again as we walked to the porch and we went inside, neither of us speaking. In the house, he immediately led me to a bedroom, and I knew we were both on the same page.

  ~*~*~*~

  Up on my knees and facing his bedroom wall, my hands splayed flat against it, I moaned loudly as Zane pumped up hard inside me from behind.

  He was on his knees too, arms wrapped around me, one hand clutching my breast, the other between my legs doing scandalous and amazing things to me as his hips pistoned powerfully, and I came again.

  “Oh, my God!” I screamed because that one had come out of nowhere.

  Holy shit.

  “Mm, love feeling your pussy grab my cock, baby,” he growled in my ear as his thrusts got stronger until with a final plunge, he nearly took me off the bed as he climaxed.

  He fell back pulling me with him, and we lay there breathing hard, me on top of him, my back to his front and I stared at the ceiling thanking the fates that I’d met this sex god. Then giving me a kiss behind my ear, he slid out of me and said, “Be right back.” Moving me to the side, he stood, and I watched in the dim light from the desk lamp that glorious ass of his as he walked out of the room to take off the condom, I assumed.

  Whil
e he was gone, I looked around his room seeing that it was tidy. There was a Red Sox pennant on one wall and a rack on another that held thirty million baseball caps. Not really, but there were a lot. There was the obligatory I’m-a-horny-college-dude poster of a bikinied chick on the adjacent wall as well as a framed print of a baseball stadium that had a big green wall in the outfield. A desk with several opened books on top as if he’d been studying was pushed against the opposite wall, and there were a few framed pictures on the windowsill of him with a bunch of guys, all of which were doing what I thought was called the shaka sign—thumb and pinky out with the other three fingers bent to their palms, the international “We’re drunk as shit” gang sign of all college students. They also had their tongues out Gene Simmons style, naturally. Scanning the room once more, I checked for any proof of a girlfriend but saw nothing, so at least he wasn’t a cheater.

  When Zane came back into the room, my eyes couldn’t help but skim over that magnificent body of his, taking in his pronounced pecs, ripped abs and spectacularly huge cock that was still semi-erect.

  “Thirsty?” he asked.

  Boy, was I. But then I noticed he was holding a water bottle out to me. “Oh. Yeah,” I said, taking it, blushing at my misinterpretation of the word.

  After taking a long drink, he placed his bottle on the night stand then sat on the bed, and lying back, said in a low gravelly voice, “Come here,” and there came the dips and butterflies again.

  I twisted to face him and the next thing I knew, he’d pulled me up under my arms over him, brought his head up, and taking one of my nipples in his mouth, sucked hard.

  “Oh, God!” I cried out, partly out of shock but mostly out of ecstasy.

  Then my hands were on the wall again as he pulled me up higher and wrapping his arms under my thighs and holding them on top with his hands, he pulled me down and put his mouth between my legs, his tongue dipping inside me.

  Oh. My. Dear. Sweet. Lord.

  He kept this up until he flicked his tongue over my clitoris before sucking it inside his hot, wet, warm mouth and I came harder than I ever had before.

  “Zane!” I hollered and heard his gravelly voice answer, “That’s what I was waiting to hear,” then he turned me quickly to face his feet, mouth on me again from behind and his fabulous, fully rock-hard cock in front of me.

  I wasted no time in returning the favor with my own mouth, putting my hand around the base of his cock and bending down, slid my lips down to take him in as far as I could. When the head reached the back of my throat, my lips had barely met my hand and I let out a moan at how damned big he was. God.

  Then jerking his hips up, he groaned loudly, muttering, “Gonna fuck your mouth, babe.”

  And he did just that.

  And I took all of him.

  Suddenly, I was flipped over onto my back, eyes still watering as I tried to catch my breath and watched him grab another condom and slide it on. As he did, those golden eyes of his burned into mine then he was inside me, hands under my ass as he drove in hard and deep making me arch up into him as another climax burst through my body.

  “That’s it. Fucking love that,” he rasped as he continued pumping his hips into mine.

  When he reached his peak, I watched as his neck muscles strained, his teeth clamped together, eyes never leaving mine as he gave into his release.

  Stunning.

  He collapsed on top of me, breathing heavily then turning his head, kissed the side of my neck and mumbled, “You’re fucking beautiful, Syrena.” Moving off me, he lay on his back, threw his forearm across his face and was out.

  Wow.

  Best sex ever.

  A few minutes later, I got up, dressed and left.

  I didn’t see him again until two years later.

  Chapter 2

  So, let me give you a little background here.

  My name is Jillian Jordan and I’ve been disdainfully dubbed a free spirit by my parents.

  Hi, Jillian.

  I’ve always felt it necessary to link that description to some kind of twelve-step group, maybe Clutterers Anonymous—yes, there is such a group—because growing up, I found that people in my parents’ world didn’t understand free spiritedness, otherwise known as nefarious nonconformity, all that well. To my parents, there was a right way to do things…then there was the Jillian way.

  Let me give you an idea of what I’m talking about.

  At thirteen, I was banished from sleepovers, Constance Kensington’s at her family’s lush estate in the Hamptons being my last because my ghost stories had scared the bajeebus out of all the girls; subsequently, over the next six months, their parents had had to hire nannies to sleep in their rooms at night. Whoops.

  I also had different ideas of fun than the average teenage girl. I hated shopping, the movie theater was a no-go unless it was the Film Forum that only showed classic, indie and foreign films, and the club scene was ridiculous. While my friends were coaxing me to do these things with them, I’d beg off to stay home and read, enter into a good debate online, binge watch episodes of I Love Lucy, Scandal or The Tudors, or be out picketing for a good cause. So, yeah, I wasn’t that far out, but I wasn’t what my parents and definitely my older sister Laurel called a “normal” teen.

  I didn’t become this way on purpose. Believe me, it would’ve been so much easier to be like Laurel or the giddy, boy-crazy girls with whom I’d attended private schools my whole life. But that just wasn’t me. I mean, unlike Laurel, if I liked a boy, it wasn’t because of the size of his trust fund. It was the size of his intelligence, how interesting he was and if he could challenge me to think.

  Another major thing that differed between Laurel and me was that any time she had a boyfriend, she’d change to suit him, and that scared me. I didn’t want to be that way. I knew there was compromising in any relationship, but I’d had one serious boyfriend my junior year in high school and when I’d felt as if he’d tried making me change—you know, little gradual things like only going to movies he wanted to see, or wanting me to show up at all his extracurricular school events when he only came to a few of mine, or telling me that if we got married, I wouldn’t work but stay home and take care of the kids like his mom did—I was outta there like a flash. Since him, I’d only dated casually, not wanting to get to that point again. Ever.

  At fifteen, I had a goldfish named Leonardo DiCaprio—Leo’s an environmentalist, folks, the man not the goldfish—a cactus named Winston Churchill, I liked Adam Sandler movies and I thought brussels sprouts were the bomb.

  To wrap up this all-about-me jam session (and prove once again that I was an outcast in my parents’ world), I found absolutely no fun or excitement in sitting still for hours at a time while an artist painted our family portrait (take a picture and paint it from that, jeez), attending charm school classes (a real lady will cross her legs at the ankles and sit up straight at all times!) or coming out at a debutante ball, all to the disappointment and vexation of my family.

  My mom—disapprovingly—has always said that I dance to my own tune and have done so starting with being born a month early. She’s stated to her friends—disdainfully—that I hit the ground running from the moment I took my first breath, and with no regard to proper etiquette, never looked back.

  Clearly, my parents and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on very many things. So needing the freedom to become who I truly was (and get away from the etiquette coach Mom had hired full-time in a last-ditch attempt to Eliza Doolittle me), after high school, I’d packed up my Prius, Leonardo DiCaprio (who’d sadly died en route) and all my belongings and moved clear across the country to attend the University of Washington in Seattle, getting as far away from the penthouse apartment in New York City where I’d grown up. And although I used the money my parents had put aside for me to attend college (as Laurel had), I didn’t feel as if it spoiled my quest to make it on my own since I meant to pay them back every penny someday. I worked at Vinyl Impressions, a vintage record store, sha
red an apartment with two guys, one of whom was my second cousin, one time removed, and was basically on my own.

  And I loved it.

  I still phoned my parents monthly and usually visited over the holidays, but when they’d start in on why couldn’t I be more like my sister and move back home and date So-and-So-Uppity-Surname-the-Third who, according to them, had just been hired by his father’s firm and would remain exceedingly rich forever and ever and who was fabulous fiancé material, and if I only married him, I wouldn’t have to work another day for the rest of my life because no Jordan should be living the indigent life I was because I deserved to have all the amenities that came with being wealthy—deeeeep breath—I’d find an excuse to hang up or fly back to Seattle and resume what I thought was not in any way a destitute life at all.

  I thought it was a good damned thing I’d watched Lorelai Gilmore handle her parents or I might have caved to their demands. Riiiiight.

  And that all was pretty much me in a nutshell. Moving on.

  The next time I saw Zane Powers happened to be my senior year in college where I was living in squalor (eye roll).

  It was a Friday evening in December and Izzy and I sat on the ground, our backs against an old oak tree where we were not only chained but handcuffed—you know, go big or go home and all—in protest of the tree being cut down to make way for a strip mall that was to be built on the property. There’d been about thirty of us to start, signs and all—"Why don’t you make like a tree and get out of here?” being my personal favorite…jussst kidding—but since it was an unusually cold night, all the other picketers had wussed out and gone home.

  Izzy and I were the only ones left.

  And we were dumbasses.

  We would’ve gone home too but we couldn’t, seeing as we were cuffed to a chain that was wrapped around the tree. Go us!