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  Starving, I was. Rabid in my thirst for sensation.

  He caught my fingers when they dipped below the waistband of his jeans and pinned my arms down at the wrist, hovering above me like an ancient god of war. “I want to see you,” he said. “All of you.”

  Greedy hands pushed my shirt and bra up to my neck in a single savage movement, baring my breasts to his hungry gaze.

  A second’s fear at the expression of naked hunger on his face vanished as soon as his mouth descended to my nipple. His teeth raked over the sensitive flesh and followed it with the luxuriant wet heat of his tongue. The other, he rolled beneath his thumb, pinching gently to complement the flicks of his tongue.

  My hips rose skyward of their own bidding, mimicking his rhythmic strokes.

  He ceased his ministrations to rid me of my shirt and bra entirely, then laid a daisy chain of kisses down my stomach.

  Gooseflesh erupted under the trail of moisture he left like war paint around my belly button, over my hips—marking places to be conquered.

  He neither paused nor waited for permission before lifting my hips and shucking my pants and panties down my thighs. My sneakers vanished, along with my socks, and I lay on the bed before him, naked.

  His pupils dilated, and for a moment, there was nothing in the room but the sounds of our breathing.

  “Your turn.” I crooked a finger at him, and he complied. Unbuttoning his jeans, I found the blunt, silky head of his sex.

  I slid the zipper down, revealing him inch by glorious inch. A dart of apprehension pierced my arousal when he stepped out of his clothing. My imagination’s only accurate rambling of the evening confronted me with stark reality: he was huge. My own inexperience and imperfection crept on me like a tidal wave.

  Closing my eyes against it, I leaned forward to brush my lips across him, tasting his salt and sweat.

  Breath hissed through his teeth and I was shoved backward onto the bed.

  “You,” he panted, “are so fucking beautiful.”

  I watched through lowered eyelids as he kissed the inside of one thigh, then lifted the knee over his shoulder.

  “I want to make you come,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on my face.

  “You have,” I whispered. “A lot.”

  “No,” he said. “Like this.” He split me with one long, languorous lick.

  The resulting spasm of pleasure was so intense, my torso jerked off the bed. His Cheshire Cat smile rose above my damp curls. “You are in such trouble, Doctor.” He delivered the revelation with a flick of his tongue that set the muscles of my stomach bunching and jerking. He pressed a hand against my sternum to hold me captive for the relentless, circling, suckling torture.

  “Please,” I begged. “Please—”

  “Someone’s been sitting in my chair!” The bellowed protest was loud enough to send us rolling to the floor in a naked heap.

  “Fuck!” Crixus swore. “They’re home.”

  “Home?” I gasped, scrambling to grab my clothes. “Who’s home?”

  “The three bears!”

  “You hid Goldilocks at their house?” I hopped into my yoga pants but missed one leg and lurched sideways.

  “Not their house, their cabin,” Crixus said, zipping himself back into his jeans. “They hardly ever use it.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Look, now is not the time to—”

  “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed!” Carl whined from the doorway. “Only they weren’t sleeping!”

  Bob and Tristan filled in the space behind him.

  “Well, well, well.” Bob sauntered into the room on all fours and circled the shirtless Crixus. “If it isn’t the doctor and the demigod. Why don’t you tell us where Goldilocks is, and you two can get back to what you were doing?”

  A picture leapt off the wall and crashed at Carl’s feet.

  Crixus and I traded a look. If Goldilocks wasn’t in the living room when they came through, where was she?

  “Look,” Crixus said. “We all know how this is going to end. Why don’t we just skip the fighting, you can admit defeat, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I like that idea!” Carl’s enthusiastic nod put me in mind of a bobble-head figurine. “We’ve already had three fights this week, and I’m starving.”

  “Can it, Carl. You’re always starving,” Tristan rumbled.

  “That’s because we’re always chasing after someone. Can’t we ever just go on a picnic?” The round, furry dome of Carl’s belly poked out as he settled onto his haunches on the floor.

  Thump.

  Something knocked against the wall where the picture had fallen. We all glanced toward the wall shared with the bedroom next door.

  “She’s in the other room.” Bob stretched up onto his hind legs and rolled his thick neck. “Should we get this over with?”

  Crixus cracked his knuckles and did a couple side bends to loosen up his lower back. “Might as well.”

  Another thump on the wall where the picture had fallen became two thumps. Then three.

  Then a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, thump.

  I looked at Crixus, then at each of three bears. “You’re here,” I reasoned. “And there’s no porn on downstairs…”

  “Oh, Billy!” The muffled cry was audible to us all.

  Carl covered his ears with his paws and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Tristan stalked over to the wall and leaned in close. “Wow. Sounds like he’s giving it to her hard boiled.”

  One final exultant shout dropped the room into silence. The door squeaked open moments later and Billy strutted out with a giant crack splintering down between his eyes and one to match on the monocle dangling from his open waistcoat.

  “Billy!” I gasped. “Are you okay?”

  “He’s better than okay. He’s fanfuckingtastic,” Goldy reported, rubbing an affectionate hand over his pointy head. “Aren’t you, baby?”

  “It would appear I am,” Billy reached up to give Goldy’s bottom a pinch. “We’ll be off now.”

  “But what about Zeus?” Crixus asked.

  “And Hera,” Bob added.

  “Tell Hera that bed-hopping bolt-wanker is all hers.” Goldy winked at me and slid past Billy with a sexy wiggle of her hips.

  “But—” Bob began.

  “You heard the lady.” Billy withdrew his monocle from his pocket and squinted at each of the bears through its round brass frame. “Unless you gents are of a mind to cop a mouse again. I’m in a sanguineous humor. I could go for a good collie shangle.”

  Bob covered his head, Tristan—his crotch, and Carl—his belly.

  “Right, then.” Billy tucked the monocle back into his pocket the way a thwarted punk might stash brass knuckles.

  “Coming?” Goldy sashayed over to the staircase, caressing the railing with long, slim fingers on her way down.

  “Many times over.” Billy jumped, clicked his heels and followed her, shouting a final “ta-ta!”

  We stared after them in open-mouthed wonder long after the loud pop announced their departure.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch.” Crixus sat down on the bed and shrugged back into his black T-shirt.

  “Well I guess that does answer one question.” I turned from the doorway and pulled my arms into the T-shirt I had put on backwards in my haste.

  “Which question is that?” Carl asked.

  “What came first?” I said. “The chicken, or the egg?”

  “The porn star,” Bob answered.

  *****

  Light streamed through the curtains and ran in a river across the bed. I stood in the doorway, my hand sweating around stems still cold from the florist’s bucket. Roses beyond the window. A little garden where birds hopped from stone baths to feeders drifting in a lazy breeze beneath a canopy of green.

  The room was painted a cheerful lemon curd yellow. Framed pictures gathered into casual clusters on the walls.

  In some of them, I found my face.r />
  Liam had chosen well.

  The sound of my heels on the linoleum floor startled me as I took a step closer to the bed.

  Her hair, once exactly the color of mine, fanned out on the white pillowcase like a corona shot through with silver threads. A delicate framework of lines creased the thin, translucent skin around her eyes, carved parentheses around her mouth. Her lips were pale, her cheeks flushed with sleep.

  Taking her hand in mine felt like holding a baby bird—all bones, and warmth, and a heartbeat.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and I was looking down into hazel eyes cinched around a dilated pupil—no surprise, as I had seen the list of psychotropic drugs listed on her chart at my arrival.

  I saw recognition slide into place. My relief was giant.

  “Matilda?”

  I nodded. “Hi, Mom.”

  The wide smile she beamed at me sent hooks into my chest. “You found me.”

  “I had help.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezed my hand. “Thank you for finding me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mom.” The tears tightening my throat welled up and over my eyelids.

  “What for?”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long.” I brought the back of her hand to my lips and kissed it.

  “Time is numbers.” She shook her head. “Numbers aren’t real. Not like you.”

  I bent over the bed and hugged her to me, breathing in her scent of clean linen and soap. “I won’t let the numbers keep me away,” I promised. “Not ever again.”

  She petted my head with strong, reassuring strokes. “And not the man, either. He isn’t nice. He isn’t safe.”

  Worry trickled down the back of my neck. I hadn’t wanted to think of the blackmailer in this sunny place. Hadn’t wanted to grant him entry into my mother’s room through my thoughts. She was off the table, at least, and for now that was enough.

  “Which man?” I asked.

  She pushed my shoulders away as if having me too close made it difficult for her to understand me whole. “The one who wants to hurt you. The one who says he’ll make you pay.”

  <<<>>>

  To be continued…

  Don’t miss Matilda Schmidt in Unassailable, sprung September 2014!

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  About the author:

  Cynthia St. Aubin wrote her first play at age eight and made her brothers perform it for the admission price of gum wrappers. A steal, considering she provided the wrappers in advance. Though her early work debuted to mixed reviews, she never quite gave up on the writing thing, even while earning a mostly useless master's degree in art history and taking her turn as a cube monkey in the corporate warren.

  Because the voices in her head kept talking to her, and they discourage drinking at work, she started writing instead. When she's not standing in front of the fridge eating cheese, she's hard at work figuring out which mythological, art historical, or paranormal friends to play with next. She lives in Colorado with the love of her life and three surly cats.

  Table of Contents

  Other Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist novellas

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  UNBEARABLE

  I love stalkers! You can find me here:

  About the author: