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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 
 

In His Arms 
Copyright©2010 Sarah Masters 
ISBN 978-1-60054-441-5 

His and His Kisses Edition 
Cover art and design by Emmy Ellis 

All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. 

 
Published by loveyoudivine Alterotica 

2009 

Find us on the World Wide Web at 
www.loveyoudivine.com 


Dedication 

For Laura Garland 

The cool air outside the restaurant nips my cheeks. I forgot to pick up my coat, but there’s no way I’m going back for it now. Once Pete 
realises I haven’t gone to the toilet, he’ll be in a black mood. I haven’t got the energy to face that. This time five years ago, my was mind full of promises that turned into lies. He hasn’t honoured or protected me. He hasn’t cherished, loved, or nurtured me. He’s put me down, controlled, and used me. How the realisation of one’s youthful naivety stings. 

I walk through town, past shops boasting items we can’t afford—because Pete’s online gambling addiction swallows all available funds. He has the spendthrift demon on his back. Destination unknown, uncaring where my feet take me, I plod on. Plod is the right word. I feel like a tired old workhorse who’s pulled one too many ploughs. What’s the point of me sowing the seeds, only to find the fruits of my labours are rancid come harvest time? 

A roundabout at the end of High Street prompts my mind into action. Which way do I take? Straight on leads home—probably to an argument between Pete’s fist and my body. 
Left leads to a cul-de-sac housing retirement homes. Right goes past the park. I could go there, sit on a bench, and think. Decision made, I cross the road and hug myself against the cold. Like Pete says: “You shouldn’t even feel it, Jerry, not with all that fat insulating your body.” 

I’m not fat. Just put on a few pounds, that’s all. But his words make me worry, make me believe I am. Damn him. 

The park’s so eerily quiet that goose bumps spring up on my arms. I must be insane to have entertained this place as my thinking arena. The density of bordering trees reminds me of horror movies, of murderers lurking in the foliage, ready to pounce on me at any moment. 

Stop it…things like that don’t happen in this town. I laugh. That’s what they all say when interviewed in the papers or appearing on the news. 

Shoving the bad thoughts from my mind, I sit on a mould-speckled bench and allow other sinister images into my head. Like Pete’s right hook. I’m in for it when I get home, no doubt about it. How have we come to this? How have I? Once a strong-minded, outgoing man, I would have told people in my situation to get away after the first punch. “Go on,” I’d have said. “Run away. No way I’d put up with that shit.” 

And now look at me. It isn’t as easy as just running away, I know that now. 

Why didn’t I spot the signs? Maybe because Pete hid his true personality so well for a time. 

Back then, he acted the opposite to what he does now. I questioned him once—only once, mind—and he’d said, “Snare ’em then never share ’em.” I pondered on what he’d meant by that, coming to the conclusion that not sharing me meant he could hit me whenever he chose and no one would know. 

What a bloody mess. 

“Do you often sit in the park alone at night? Dangerous.” 

My throat tightens against a scream, and my hand whips to my chest. Heart hammering too fast, I jump from the bench and adopt a martial arts position that I have no idea how to follow up. 

“Hey! Calm down. I’m behind you.” 

I turn. A man stands, arms out in front of him in a non-aggressive pose. His kindly face stills many thoughts of fear, and I hike in a calming breath. Tawny-blond hair—the opposite to my black—hangs in waves over his 
brow, and grey eyes regard me with amusement. His lips quirk as though he’s fighting a smile, and stubble covers his cheeks and chin. A black coat, one that dwarfs him, covers what I can only imagine is a sinewy body, and dark blue jeans and brown winter boots complete his ensemble. 

They say it’s those who look the most approachable that commit hideous crimes. 
Fear returns, bites my nerves. 

“Step back,” I say. 

The man laughs, a pleasant sound that incites a battle inside me. I want to trust him, but what kind of guy loiters in parks at night time? 

People like me? 

“Go on,” I say, hysteria nudging my voice up an octave. “Piss off! I know martial arts!” 

I lift one leg, balance on the other, and raise my arms, hands floppy. 

Well, it worked for Bruce Lee. Except Bruce Lee doesn’t wear a grey suit when he’s fighting. “Hawwwww!” I say and wave my hands. 

He throws his head back, laughs louder, and clutches his belly. “Oh, stop it,” he says once he’s controlled himself. “You’ll give me a hernia. Look, I’m going to sit on this bench, all right? If you want to run away, do so, but if you don’t, I wouldn’t mind the company. Your choice.” 

He sits and reaches into the inside pocket of his coat. 

Has he got a bloody gun in there? 

“Hawwwww!” I place my raised foot back on the floor and bend my knees, ready to pounce if he so much as— 

Laughter burbles out of him again. “Oh, you’re the funniest thing I’ve encountered in a long time. Will you pack it in? Please, my ribs hurt.” 

I lower my hands, the heat of the foolish staining my cheeks. 

He’s okay, isn’t he? 

I thought Pete was once too. 

Indecision burns the backs of my eyes. I should run, shouldn’t I? Get the hell away from him and go home to Pete. Better the devil you know and all that. 

I sit beside him on the bench and will my thumping heart to resume its usual schedule. 

He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and offers one to me. The lure of nicotine still pokes at me from time to time when stressed. 
I haven’t smoked since just after I met Pete. I’m tempted...sorely tempted, but Pete doesn’t like— 

I take one. “Thanks.” 

The man clicks his lighter and holds the flame toward me. I lean forward, light the cigarette, and inhale. Choking coughs wrack my body, and my eyes water. 

“First cigarette in a long time?” he asks. 

I nod, still coughing. 

“My name’s Zeb, by the way. And you are?” 

Now composed, I inhale again—this time with no embarrassing results. “Jerry, but you can call me fat bastard, asshole, jerk, or whatever takes your fancy.” 

He pauses, cigarette midway to his mouth. 
“Pardon?” 

“I said…” 

His eyes widen and harbour what I think is pity. “I heard what you said, but I don’t like it.” He sighs, the gust loud in the quiet of the park. 

“You should try being called those names on a daily basis then.” Why did I say that? What the hell possessed me? 

He inhales, a frown upsetting his previously smooth brow. “I wouldn’t like that,” he says and blows out a cloud of blue-grey smoke. 

“I don’t either.” 

Another sigh sails from his lips, and he looks up at the star-filled sky. “Sad, that.” 

I nod and stare at his profile: slender nose, strong jaw, prominent cheekbones. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, gaze still fixed on the sky, arm moving up and down as he smokes. Such a languid movement, like he hasn’t got a care in the world. 

“Thinking.” 

“Me too. I come here to think every night. About the future and what it holds for me. About the past and how it has affected my future.” 

I stare at the sky too. “Hmmm. Similar to what I was doing.” 

“I’d take a guess that you’re pondering on whether to leave your partner.” His exhalation briefly disguises the silver stars. 

“Yes. Didn’t take much working out, did it?” 

“No. My partner’s thinking the same as you.” 

My eyes widen, and I turn to look at him. 
“Really? Has your relationship hit a rough patch?” 

A wry smile touches his face. “If only that was all it was.” A tear escapes his eye, and he leaves it unchecked. “No, my partner’s struggling with whether it’s worth leaving me or not because…” He clears his throat. “He has terminal cancer.” 

Well, that’s just gone and made all my problems insignificant, hasn’t it? Made me feel a bastard too. “Oh. Umm, I don’t know what to say.” 

“Most people don’t,” he says and smiles. 

“Why would he want to leave you? I mean, shouldn’t he want you around at this…this kind of time?” 

He swallows. “That’s the thing. We’ve been together for years, but quite honestly, we should have parted ways a long time ago. We’d discussed splitting up, but then he got his test results back. Let’s just say that me leaving now would look bloody awful.” 

I frown at the sky, a sky that hides a god who is supposed to care for us, not strike us down with tragedies. Then again, it’s hardly His fault people get cancer, is it? Not His problem that men beat the shit out of their other halves. 

“Umm, well, I take it he wants you to leave him anyway?” 

“Yes.” He stubs out his cigarette beneath his heel, lights another. 

“And will you?” I wait for his answer as though it’ll make all the difference to my life. Odd. 

“No. No, I won’t. No point. He’s only got about a fortnight left. It’s the least I can do. You know, visit him, keep him company. Help make his passing easier somehow.” 

Two weeks? Lord, that’s got to be a tough one on his man. Whatever must he be going through? I suck on my cigarette and shiver as a waft of cold air brushes my neck. 

“I come here every night after being in the hospital. Helps clear the cobwebs. Helps…well, it just helps.” 

“I imagine it does.” Poor bloke. He must think about what he would have done differently. Whether he would have tried harder to make their relationship work. “Do you feel guilty?” 

“A little, but our love died a long time ago, so…” He squints—battling tears? 

“Yes. I understand.” 

He turns to me, eyes glistening. “Do you?” 
His gaze says more than he realises. 

“Yes, I think I do.” 

Zeb clears his throat, shimmies his shoulders, and sits more upright. “Well, that’s enough about my problems. What are you going to do about yours?” 

Funny, but I’d forgotten about mine for a few blissful moments, not that someone’s man dying of cancer is blissful and a better conversation subject. 

“I don’t know. I want to leave, but—” 

“But?” 

“It’s going to be…difficult.” 

“I imagine it will be.” He toes the path, and a small stone dances off onto the bordering grass. “I’m here every night, if you want to, you know, chat.” 

I consider his offer. I’d love to meet him again, but how would I get out each evening without the third degree from Pete? What would I say to explain my nightly absences? 

“I—” 

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to.” He sniffs. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to.” 

“I understand.” 

 “Do you?” 

“Yes, I think I do.” 

* * * *  

I sit beside him two nights later on the same bench. It feels like I never left the other evening, alone, his eyes focussed on the sky and not my departure. The only differences are our change of clothing and the fact that I have a black eye and a broken wrist. 

“He wasn’t pleased with your late return, then?” He doesn’t look at me, just stares at the stars. 

“No. How is your partner?” 

“A little worse.” 

“And you?” 

“A little worse.” 

I sigh, a great, gusty exhalation. I only wish that air contained all my woes so that they’d mingle with the breeze, fly away, leave me be, without me having to do anything. I wonder if Zeb feels the same way. 

“How are you?” he asks. 

I twitch my nose and blink. “Oh, you know, been worse.” 

He turns to me. “Why do you stay?” 

“I’m scared of him. Of what he’ll do if I leave. He…won’t let me go easily.” 

“I see. Do you have somewhere to go?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“Another problem, then.” 

“Yes.” 

“How did you get out tonight?” 

“I… He went to visit his mother. I slipped out.” 

“And if he returns early and you’re not there, when you get home, will you receive more of the same?” He nods at my face and the plaster cast on my wrist. 

“I expect so.” 

His sigh duplicates mine from earlier. “Poor you.” 

“Yes. Poor me. But at least I’m not—” 

“That’s quite true. At least you’re not dying. At least you have a choice in what you can do.” He smiles to take the sting from his words. 
“Thinking of it that way brings it into perspective, doesn’t it?” 

Sickened by my inability to stand up for myself and leave Pete to his tainted existence, I hunch further down into my thick coat. Bury my mouth in the neckline and breathe through my nose. “I’m going to leave him. Tonight.” 

He sits up straighter, eyes wide. “You are?” 

“I am.” 

We sit in companionable silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. 



Zeb breaks the quiet. “Will you try and come back here at some point? I…like your company.” 

“I’ll try, but I don’t know where I’ll be. Or how long it will be before I can come back. You might not—” 

“No, I won’t have to come here for much longer, but I’ll still come. Until you—” 

“Okay. How long will you wait?” 

“Let’s say that I’ll visit here every week night for a year from today.” 

My eyes widen, and my jaw slackens. 
“What? That’s a long time.” 

He chuckles. “Some things are worth waiting for, don’t you think? We’ve only just met, but I’d like to think we share some kind of bond already.” 

“We do. When I sit with you, it’s like—” 

“Like…?” 

“Oh, nothing.” Embarrassment heats my face. 

“Come on, just say it. No time like the present. Life’s too short, and all that.” 

I swallow, will myself to speak. “It’s like…umm, like I’ve known you a long time. Stupid, I know, but there you have it.” 

“Not stupid at all. I feel the same way.” 

* * * * 
Three weeks have passed, and I’m on my way to the park again. Somehow, saying the park means I’m not doing anything wrong—not meeting another man. And anyway, it’s not like I’ve done anything with Zeb, is it? Not like I’m having an affair, which is what Pete accused me of doing. Those words left his mouth and left mine agape. My cheeks flushed with guilt, 
though why they did, I don’t know. Well, I do, if I’m honest. I fancy Zeb, haven’t stopped thinking about him since I last saw him. I shouldn’t feel this way for a number of reasons, but I do all the same. Besides, they say you can’t control fate, and maybe fate urged Pete to get on my last nerve in that restaurant and have me walk out and find Zeb. 
Like God, it must work in mysterious ways. 

The December frost embraced the pavement hours ago. Looks like it’s turned into dangerous ice patches in places. Good job I have thick grips on my boot soles, otherwise I’d fall and hurt myself, and Zeb would think I still lived with Pete. Thank goodness my wrist cast has been taken off. Though the bone clicks from time to time, it’s healed well. And my black eye…well, no one would know I’d had one now. 

I turn into the park grounds. The grass stands at attention, rendered stiff with a coating of frost. It crunches beneath my tread, and with a childish urge, I glance back and see my footprints. Looking forward again, I spot Zeb sitting on the bench, huddled inside his coat, one much like a quilted sleeping bag. He lifts his head at my approach, and his eyes sparkle beneath the peak of his woollen cap. 
My tummy flip-flops. 

“Hello,” I say and peer at the bench. He’s dusted off the frost. 

“Hello,” he says, pats the space beside him. 

I sit and stuff my hands into the opposing sleeves of my coat for warmth. “How’s your—” 

“Gone.” 

“Gone?” What a silly answer, Jerry. Top marks for stupidity. 

“Yesterday.” 

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze my forearms, a rhythmic comfort. 

“I’m not.” 

Startled, I stare at his profile. He’s looking at the sky again, at the moon and the stars and the thin grey clouds. I gulp and ask, “What?” 

His wry chuckle indicates his grief, and he lights a cigarette, inhales so deeply I fear he’ll swallow his lips. “It’s for the best. He was…in a 
lot of pain near the end.” Smoke billows out with each word, dissipating in the chill breeze. 
“He…he, umm, wanted to go before Christmas. 

So I could,” he swallows, “be free for the festive season.” 

His laugh is full of bitterness, anger, and…guilt? 

I don’t know what to say, so opt for the usual platitude. “At least he’s at peace now.” 

“Yes, there is that.” He sighs, loud and weary. “So, you got out for another evening, then.” His cigarette end glows and reminds me of the ember nuggets in a bonfire. 

I smile a little. “I got away for good, like I said I would last time we met.” 

His eyes widen, and he faces me. “You did?” 

“I did.” My smile hurts my cheeks, and it feels so wrong to smile when he’s grieving, so obviously full of pain. 

“That’s wonderful!” My news appears to have perked him up. A blush—or is that a wind chill burn I hadn’t noticed before?—suffuses his cheeks, and his mouth stretches wide. His eyes, though, they narrow, and a frown births two deep grooves between his eyes. “Did he…did he hurt you? Did he cause trouble?” 

“Surprisingly, no. It took all my courage to tell him, and I waited for the slaps, the kicks, but they never came. Instead, he cried. A lot.” 

Zeb grimaces. “Did that make you feel bad?” 

I tilt my head and consider his question for a second or two. “No. No, it just got on my nerves. I sound mean, but if you—” 

“No need to explain. I understand. My mother…endured a man like him.” 

I squeeze my arms again. “Oh.” I rush on. “I’m so happy I could burst, yet I feel bad about it because you’re—” 

“No need. You deserve happiness. Besides, awful as it may sound, I’m happier than I’ve been in years too. I’m struggling with the guilt of that, though.” 

“I bet you are.” 

He lights another cigarette, offers me one. I move to take it, then remember my hands are stuffed in my coat sleeves. 

“Oh. Daft bastard.” I pull one hand free, my cheeks burning, and take the cigarette. 
“Thanks.” 

We smoke two cigarettes each, neither of us speaking, the silence a comfort rather than being awkward. Just to sit beside him, it seems, is enough. How can I feel this way after three meetings? How did I feel like this after two? One? I don’t know. Some things just happen. Just are. No explanation. 

The sky is so black, like I imagine the fall into Hell would be, only the stars would be orange, for the inkling of the flames to come upon arrival in Hades. Despite Pete’s behaviour, despite the booklets on abuse telling me his actions weren’t my fault, I’m sure that’s where I’ll be going. Hell. Perhaps Pete has instilled that into me with his many rants on the subject. 

D’you think you’ll get to Heaven by making my dinner late, eh? D’you think St. Peter will let you in after you left this house in such a mess today? D’you think God will want you up there with Him when you’re such a fat bastard? D’you think, d’you think, d’you think…? 

“Can I see you again?” he asks, startling me out of my painful musings. 

“Yes, I’ll come back here and see you. I live about five miles out of town now, but it isn’t a problem to walk here.” 
“Have you ever considered moving away? I mean, right away? Starting again?” He puffs out his cheeks, and the outsides of his lips turn white with the pressure. 

“Of course I have. I’m staying with a friend at the moment so I can regroup; think what I should do next.” 

“And you trust this friend not to give away your location? I mean, is he friends with him too?” 

A belly laugh renders me breathless. Once composed, I say, “Oh, no. Tanya hates Pete, always has, even when he was being nice at the start.” 

 “Good.”  

* * * * 
Once a month, I visit the park. Almost a year has passed, and Pete still hasn’t got a hold of me. Surprising, since he was so controlling. His lack of contact—though I love it—leaves me wondering when he’ll crawl out of the woodwork, find me, degrade me, hit me. I did hear whispers that he’d found another man already. Far from hurting my feelings, the news only served to relieve me. Him moving on so quickly proves he didn’t really care for me after all, so I needn’t have wasted so much time with him, given him all those years of my life, lived in fear of his fists, his feet, his fingers… 

Oh. Zeb isn’t on the bench. That’s odd. 

I’ll sit here and wait. 

And wait. 

And wait. 

Where is he? I hope he hasn’t had an accident on the way. 

“He’s fucked off.” The voice, heard so long ago now but sounding like it had berated me only yesterday, frightens me senseless. I manage to disguise a jump, to sit like I knew he’d come, knew he’d know where I’d be. 

Twigs snap, and undergrowth rustles, the sounds coming closer. My heartbeats frantic, I pull in deeper breaths to steady my nerves, 
prevent a panic attack. What is he doing here? How did he know…? 

“Some bloke he is, leaving you here just because I threatened him. Think he was your knight in shining armour, did you, like the fellas in those shitty movies you always watched? Reckon he’s after saving his own hide rather than yours. Fucking ponce.” 

His breath tickles my neck, and tingles of disgust skitter down my spine. 

Oh, God. Please don’t let him hurt me. Oh, no. No. What if he’s found out where I live? 
Bravado shakes me, and I turn my head an inch to see him out of my peripheral vision. He’s put on weight—ironic—and his usually short brown hair needs a cut. “Have you been following me?” 

He snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

Here we go again. Mind games. 

Risking a slap, indignant, I say, “Well, yes. That’s why I asked.” 

He scoots around the bench, in front of me now, nostrils flared in anger. “Think you’re something now? Think you can be rude to me now you’ve got another bloke, eh?” 

Despite wanting to prove to him that he isn’t scaring me, I’ll admit that he is. “No.” I lower my head and curse myself for the submissive action. Damn him. 

“If you must know,” he says, the shuffle of his coat indicating he’s adopted his other pose, the one with fists on hips, chin jutting forward, 
“I saw you last month walking past the Queen’s Arms. Watched where you went from there. Followed you. Saw you sitting here with him, didn’t I?” He shuffles his feet, settles on planting them far apart—his fighting stance. 

I look up and stare at the thick white spittle dangling from his bearded chin. “And?” Shut up, shut up; don’t antagonise him! 

His eyes widen, and he appears manic, unstable. “And I’ve fucking sat in the pub every night since and waited for you to walk past again.” 

An epiphany visits, and I see him for what he is. A coward and a bully, someone who can only feel good about himself when he’s hurting others. Well, he may hit me soon, hurt me that way, but he no longer has the power to hurt me inside. No. I’m stronger than that now. Aren’t I? Hasn’t the time away from him given me strength? 

I’m not sure. Has it? I think it has. 

A huge sigh escapes me. He’ll think me rude for allowing that. “What do you want, Pete?” 

He snorts again, a mad, raging bull. “What I want is an apology! You’ve been having an affair like I said, haven’t you? Seeing him while you were with me, isn’t that right? Seeing him when you lived with me.” 

I swallow the rising bile and stare at him hard. He’s such an ugly person inside. His good looks hide what’s beneath, fool you into thinking he’s charming. Nice. “No, I’m not having an affair. Zeb is my friend. He—” 

“Zeb! Fucking Zeb! What kind of a name is that, for fuck’s sake?” He laughs, loud and hearty, cruel and wicked. 

His words sting me on Zeb’s behalf, light the fire in my gut. I rise and brush past him. My coat touches his, and I tamp down a retch, a shudder from the contact. “Fuck off, Pete.” 

What the hell? Did I just say that? Really? 

His spiteful fingers grip my arm and spin me around to face him. “What did you just say?” 
Red veins decorate the whites of his eyes, and his lips draw tight, pale to the lightest pink. 

I glare at him, angered. “Have you gone deaf since I left you?” 

His lips retract, baring his gums. My pulse thuds painfully in my neck. What possessed me to say that? His left arm pulls back, his hand a fist, poised to strike. 

“That’s enough of that,” says a calming voice, one that I love, one I long to hear the whole time I’m not in his company. 

A crackle of fallen tree limbs, the squelch of mulchy leaves, and Zeb stands beside us. Pete turns his hateful gaze on him, raises his fist again, and dances from foot to foot. 

“Come on then, fucker. Let’s sort this out man to man, eh? Fight for the fella in our lives, yeah? Like this is going to be anything but a pissing contest.” Pete jerks his body, looking ridiculous, if only he’d realise it. “Yeah, I’ll bloody have you. Go down like a sack of shit, mate, that’s what you’ll do.” 

Zeb breaks eye contact with him, gives the slightest indication with his head that I should move. Rooted to the spot, I’m unsure what to do. Pete might hurt Zeb… 

“Yeah, man. I’ll fucking smack you into next week. Come on. Come on then!” 

Pete dives forward. Zeb side-steps, and Pete’s the one falling down like a sack of shit. 

“Oh, God.” If my heart beats any faster… 

“Jerry, come on.” Zeb tilts his head, and I scuttle past the prone Pete, who’ll soon be up and ready to fight again. “Ignore him. Just walk with me as though he isn’t there. He won’t get up.” 

“He will,” I whisper. “He’ll be raging when he does. Quickly!” 

“Calm down. He won’t get up.” 

We walk at a steady pace to the pathway leading to the park entrance, my legs wobbly. 


My stomach churns, and I can’t resist the desire to turn, to see if Zeb is right. 

He is. 

Pete lays face-first on the path, a huge red demon on his back, its claws digging into his shoulders. 

What? 

“He won’t bother you again.” 

We leave the park and head toward the Queen’s Arms. I’m trying to comprehend what I’ve just seen, to decipher whether I’m finally going nuts. “Am I mad, or was there a—” 

“Devil on his back? Yes, there was. Like I said, he won’t bother you again.” 

“But—” 

“Just let me explain once we’re inside the pub. Here, I’ll hold the door open for you.” 

A warm blast of air beleaguers my skin, as though angry with me for breeching its space. I follow Zeb into a section of the pub filled with 
three comfy-looking leather sofas, hardwood coffee tables, and a huge, decorated spruce beside a large fireplace. A porcelain-faced angel tops the Christmas tree, and silver baubles hang from every other branch. Pewter-coloured beads, casually draped, remind me of the plastic necklaces that used to be in Christmas crackers when I was a kid. And the 
jokes inside those crackers—far from crackers, I realise now—used to make me laugh so hard my sides hurt. Those were the days. 

I sit on the only empty sofa, the one by the tree, and Zeb, still standing, holds out his hand for my jacket. He hangs it on a nearby coat 
stand and returns to ask, “What would you like to drink?” 

I think of the devil at the park. “Something strong. A short.” 

“Double?” 

“Please.” 

He walks to the bar, situated through an archway, and leans against it, one leg bent. A young barmaid walks over, flickers her eyelashes at him, and smiles a simpering smile. Jealousy creates images of me wiping that silly look off of her face by telling her he’s gay, and I oust the visuals from my mind, feeling mean for even entertaining them. He isn’t mine to feel jealous over. I’m stupid to think he’d be interested in me anyway. 

Zeb hands me my drink—whiskey or brandy judging by the colour—and sits beside me, his hand on my knee. Heat races through my body, and my stomach lurches. 

“About that—” 

“What the hell was that—?” 

We laugh, nervous, and I nod for him to go first. 

“About that episode at the park. It’s going to sound fantastical, stupid, ludicrous, even, but I’ll tell you anyway, and if you don’t want to see me again, then that’s fine.” 

Oh. Is it? Won’t it hurt you inside like it’ll hurt me not to see you? 

“Well, I mean,” he blushes, “it’s not fine, because I’ll miss you. I’ve got attached to our meetings, to you, and you’ve helped me get through my grief just by sitting with me. What I mean is that if that’s what you want, then I’ll just have to move on without you, much as it’ll pain me to do so.” 

I sip my drink—brandy, then—and savour the burn as it travels into my gullet. He bestows an intense gaze on me, one that turns me to mush. My lips smack together as I try to speak. “I-I…ummm. Okay. I’m listening.” 

And he goes on to tell me about mythical beings. About his father being a lord of French people named the Karbidons. 

“My venture to Britain resulted in a sham of a relationship and the death of… I’m better off with my own kind and not out in the big wide world among mortals. As a child, I thought of nothing else. You know, leaving the place where I’d grown up, pretending to be human. I should really go back.” He glances at me, his cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded. “You know, my kind get their power when they find the right person for them. I knew I hadn’t when I couldn’t make my partner better.” He lowers his head, stares into his drink, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. Ice tinkles against the side, and he takes a sip, wincing. “I realise this all sounds so damn stupid.” He swipes his hand over his mouth, stubble rasping against his palm. “The door is there if you want to leave. I understand.” 

Do I want to leave? Do I believe him? Even though what he said was, indeed, fantastical, after seeing that…that thing on Pete’s back. 
Nothing has changed. I still fancy him. Still love his company. I mean, even after he’s just told me something that should make me run a mile, I don’t want to. It doesn’t seem to matter, this story of his. Doesn’t change the way I feel. 

“I’m happy sitting here,” I say, and my stomach contracts, muscles bunching. 

He releases a sigh, and I look at him, see him staring at the ceiling, his eyes moist. 
“So you don’t think I’m mad?” he asks. 

I shake my head. “Nope. If I hadn’t seen that devil, then yeah, I’d think you were mad, but I saw it and… Look, I like you, really like you. We’ve met for a long time now, and I can’t imagine us not meeting. I—” 

“That demon,” he turns his head to face me, “that was the first time I’d beckoned one. Beckoned anything. Do you understand what I’m saying?” 

I swallow and nod. “Yes. Yes, I do.” 

“Would it be forward of me to ask if you’d like to book a room here?” Zeb asks. 

Startled, I stare at him wide-eyed. 
“You…you like me like…that?” 

“Isn’t the demon answer enough?” 

I nod, and butterflies fill my stomach. Zeb stands and walks over to the bar, speaks with the woman behind it then disappears through a side door. To the reception desk, no doubt. I start to fret. I haven’t had sex since Pete, and for a first time with someone else I’d have liked to shower, brush my teeth, have time to digest what’s about to happen. It’s not that I don’t want to—far from it—but… 

Zeb appears, places his hands on the table and leans forward, his eyes showing concern with the way they narrow. “We don’t have to…you know. It’s just somewhere to be alone. Somewhere we can talk. I should have thought it through. Shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. I’m sorry.” 

His apology eases away my worries. It would be no different to us sitting in the park, no different to just now when we sat here…except there’d be a bed. “It’s okay.” I stand and finish my drink in one gulp, the burn 
taking my mind off…other things. 

Zeb walks to the coat stand, and I take in the plains of his back as he lifts an arm to unhook our coats. Dark denims encase long legs, the thighs thick, and I wonder if they taper to slim calves or swell out with bulky muscles. He turns, coats held over one arm, and his white shirt pulls across his chest, giving me an idea of what’s beneath. My cock twitches, and that first stirring of desire warms yet scares me. Will we be compatible? Will he like my body? What if I don’t get it right—if I don’t understand his needs? A hot blush fills my cheeks, and I stare at the multi-coloured carpet, at the swirls and whorls that resemble my inner turmoil. 

“I can cancel the room, you know.” 

His voice holds a hint of uncertainty, and I look up into eyes full of worry. He runs his fingers through his hair then lowers his hand to his side, bunches and unclenches it rhythmically. 

“No. No, I’m just a little—” 

“Nervous?” 

I nod, swallow, heart pounding hard. 

“Me too.” Zeb smiles, his lips lopsided, and tilts his head. “Shall we stay or go? Your call.” 

I stand by his side, nudge him in the ribs. 
“Stay. Come on.” 
 
* * * * 

The room is average as far as pub hotels go: a double bed with a thin duvet, cheap bedside cabinets covered in cream Formica, and a matching two-door wardrobe. Net curtains go some way to affording privacy, and red velvet drapes hang open, the hems falling just below the windowsill. A door to the right stands ajar, and I peer through the crack—the bathroom. 
Zeb closes the door, and the snick of the lock churns my stomach. Nerves weaken my legs, and I wonder whether to remain standing or sit on the bed. If I stand it looks like I don’t want him, but if I sit he’ll think I’m too forward. 

Where has the ease gone? Why am I so damn antsy now? 

Zeb throws our coats onto a chair beside the window and reaches up to switch on a TV mounted to a wall bracket. He draws the drapes across, pausing for a moment to look outside at the street below. Is he regretting this? Wishing he hadn’t suggested we take a room? He brings the fabric together, shutting out the world, and turns to face me. 

“Fancy seeing if there’s a movie on?” he asks, inclining his head toward the TV. 

“Okay.” I take the initiative and flop down on the bed, hoping my action appears casual. Plumping the pillows behind me, I lean back and cross my ankles, pulse throbbing in my throat. 

God, let this be okay. Let everything work out. 

Zeb settles beside me, and my breath hitches, heart hammers faster. He takes a remote control from the bedside cabinet nearest him and channel surfs. “Nothing but soaps and game shows,” he says, glancing at me. A pause, then, “This was a bad idea, wasn’t it?” 

I inhale and release a shaky breath, stare at the opposite wall. “No, no, it’s just…I’m so nervous. Pete, he said some nasty things. Things that have stayed with me. About my body. About other men not finding me attractive, and—” 

His hand smoothes up my thigh, and a breath catches in my throat. My cock stirs to life, and if he moves his hand higher he’ll feel it, know that I— 
“I find you attractive.” 

He leans close, breath fanning my neck, lips touching the skin there. Goose bumps spring up on my arms, and I long to relax, to lie plaint and yielding. His hand reverses its journey, fingertips brushing my knee, then moves up once again. I turn my head a little, brush my cheek against his, and clench my fists. His tongue dashes out, wet heat on my earlobe, and my bollocks grow taut. Christ, this is torture. I want him, want to reach out and touch every part of him, but I can’t…just can’t bring myself to give in to my desires. 

“Relax,” he whispers, hand skimming my bulge. 

My hips jerk, and I grip the duvet, look to the ceiling. His kisses trail from my ear down my neck, linger in the hollow below my Adam’s apple, and he shifts, rolling onto his side. My cock throbs, and I relax my hands, find the courage to match his position, fitting myself against him. His hardness meets mine, and the fact that I arouse him startles me. My nose bumps against his, and I loose a nervy laugh, bring my hand up to rest over his waist. Stomach churning, I rub his back, explore the dip of his spine, the hard peaks of his shoulder blades. His lips brush mine, and I close my eyes, a rush of desire pushing a little of my worry away. 

Zeb cups my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. He presses his lips to mine, tongue probing to open my mouth, and I comply, tasting him, both of us discovering the other’s mouths. Softly, gently, we kiss for long moments, his fingers in my hair, his thumb continuing its comforting strokes. I could feel his back for hours, his skin hot through his shirt, and I grow bold, wanting skin-on-skin. 

Moving my hand between us, I fumble with his shirt buttons, fingers seeming thick and useless. My inability to get the job done with ease doesn’t seem to matter, and eventually the last button is free and my hand snakes inside. Coarse hairs feel delicious on my palm, and I run my hand over his chest, blushing as I skim over a hardened nipple. Zeb groans, the sound remaining in his throat, and I flick my thumb over the taut nub, my reward another moan. His hand leaves my face and moves between us, slips beneath my T-shirt and mirrors my actions. Our kiss intensifies, and I push into him, my breaths leaving my nose in short, sharp bursts. 

Moving my hand down, I unbutton his jeans, slide my hand inside and search out the opening of his boxers. My fingertips touch the soft skin, the rigidity of his cock, and I pull my mouth from his, taking in a much-needed breath. “Oh, God…” 

“Intense, isn’t it?” he breathes, following my lead and undoing my jeans. 

I nod and close my hand around his cock, its weight heavy, its width a perfect fit. With slow strokes, I learn its length, the dome of the head, the ridges. He frees mine, and his palm around it sucks the breath from me. As though our minds are in sync, we match one another’s rhythm. Our lips meet, fuelling the desire raging through me. With both hands upping the pace, I revel in how he feels. How he makes me feel. My bollocks tighten, and my ass-hole puckers, orgasm so close I’m unsure whether to let it go or hold it back. I want to drown in the sensations, make them last, but at the same time the need to climax pushes away any idea of control. Bliss consumes me, and as my cock vein throbs, I give in to the inevitable. 

Snatching my mouth from his, I nestle my face in the crook of his neck, his head on the pillow beneath mine. I clench my teeth; my wrist burns from my frantic hand movements. 
Zeb’s cock pulses, and his muffled groan excites me, urges the first shot of cum from my cock. 

“Ah! God!” I lightly bite down on his collar bone, and another surge leaves me. My neck muscles tauten, and a ragged breath shunts out of my mouth. 

With my last spurt of cum, Zeb’s first hits my lower belly, the expulsion hot and hard. A second quickly follows, and I press myself closer to him, the slickness of our stomachs so fine as they glide against one another. Zeb lets go of me, grips my waist, a third and fourth shot seeing him spent. I slow my hand to a stop and release him, aware of his cock’s sensitivity in the afterglow. Mine throbs, pinpricks shooting up and down the shaft, and I run my fingers up Zeb’s back. Resting my head on the pillow, I open my eyes to find him looking at me, a smile on his face. 

“You okay?” he asks. A sigh puffs out of him, a shy laugh quickly on its tail. 

“Yeah, you?” 

“I’m good.” He stares into my eyes. “Come to France with me?” 

“For a visit?” 

“No, to stay.” 

Surprised and pleased, I rush to speak in case he thinks any pause is a sign I don’t want to. “Yes, but…let me just absorb it for a minute, all right? I mean, there are those people you told me about. To you they’re normal, but to me…” 

“I understand.” He kisses my nose tip. “Do you want to know more?” 

I nod. “Yep. It isn’t every day you encounter other beings, you know? It’s not that I don’t want to go, just that I need to get used to the idea.” 

He rolls onto his back, settling me against him. With my head on his chest, he strokes my upper arm, heartbeats thudding in my ear. 

“We are shapeshifters, able to change from our usual form into humans when the need arises. Like now.” He laughs quietly. “But our usual forms are…different. Father has a butler; he’s a Calicantsar—part donkey, part human. 
My grandmother is a vulture with a human head. My father is a lion. Christ, it sounds crazy just talking about it. I imagine it’ll take you a while to see them as beings with the same wants and needs as you, but you’ll be fine.” 

I smile and digest the information. It all sounds so…Narnia. But I would go anywhere with Zeb. I can’t imagine my life without him in it. 

“I’m sure I will.” 

“There are certain requirements that need addressing before you can be fully received there, but I plan to talk to my father about that. What is acceptable to us isn’t acceptable to humans, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. So,” he sighs, one of contentment, “when would you like to go there?” 

My eyes widen, and I bite my top lip, thinking through what needs to be done before I can leave my old life behind. “I’d have to give notice at work, and…” 

“What?” 

“Well, I have faith in us, don’t get me wrong, but shouldn’t we see each other for a bit longer now we’ve…? Just to be sure it’s what we really want?” 

His smile shows his understanding. “It’s easy for me. I was able to beckon the demon, so I know I have found the one for me, but you…you have Pete tainting your memories, don’t you? It’ll be a while before you trust me enough. But I won’t change, you’ll see.” 

Tears sting the backs of my eyes. “What about February? Let’s say Valentine’s Day. That gives me time enough to get used to…everything.” 

“Valentine’s Day it is, then.” 

About the Author 
Sarah writes in many genres. Her love of fantasy and historicals often features in her work, and she leans toward the highly erotic. She lives in England with her adorable husband and children. 

www.sarahmastersauthor.wordpress.com