On the other hand, this was a game that could easily be played by two.
I lifted a hand and pushed a lock of hair behind his ear, then traced the line of his eyebrow and jaw with a fingertip, my gaze drinking in each part of his face, from perfect cheekbones to long lips.
This time, he froze.
Flushed with feminine power, I traced the line of his neck, then curled a fist into the top of his shirt and tugged him forward.
His eyes widened; I bit back a smile.
This time, I tortured him, skimming my lips along the line of his jaw, and then to his ear. I bit him delicately, just enough to hear his heavy sigh. I wasn’t sure if I meant it, if I was torturing him because I thought he deserved to be teased just like he’d teased me, or if I wanted the joy of doing it on my own.
My heart pounded, the rhythm sped by fear and trepidation and simple desire.
“Do you like being teased?” I whispered.
“I enjoy previews,” he said, the words confident, but his voice rough with arousal.
I took the gravelly edge to his voice as my cue.
I wanted to tease him, not push us both past the point of no return. I put my hand flat against Ethan’s chest and pushed him backward. He rose unsteadily to his feet, looking down with me with frustration in his eyes.
I stood up and walked around my chair and toward the door, then blew out a breath and straightened my ponytail.
“That’s it?”
My heart was beating like a timpani drum, the blood rushing through my veins faster than it should have. “One kiss, you told me. You had your chance to take it.”
Ethan wet his lips, straightened his collar, and moved back to his desk. He sat down in his chair, then looked up at me, something soft in his eyes.
“One kiss,” he promised. “And after that, the next time we touch, it will be because you ask me.”
I wasn’t naive enough to tell him I wouldn’t ask, to deny that I’d ever seek him out again. I knew better; we both knew better.
“I’m afraid,” I finally confessed.
“I know.” His voice was quiet. “I know, and it kills me that I put that fear into your eyes.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“Next steps?” I asked, turning him back to business once again.
“A stiff drink?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but then something occurred to me. I thought about what Sarah had said, and then gestured toward his shiny new furniture. “You know, a stiff drink may not be such a bad idea.”
“Have I finally driven you to alcohol, Sentinel?”
I grinned back at him, a sparkle in my eyes.
“We’re nearing the end of the construction.
Maybe I should round up some Novitiates for a drink at Temple Bar.”
His eyes widened appreciatively. “Offering an opportunity to casually investigate whether someone is using my bar to recruit human victims. Good thought, Sentinel.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sullivan. I’m just talking about a few drinks with my girlfriends.”
We sat quietly for a moment, the new deal between us solidifying. I was Ethan’s eyes and ears, his tool to solve the problem Tate had presented. But in order to keep him safe, he couldn’t have any more information than necessary. I wasn’t crazy about taking on the GP, and I hadn’t had much experience playing Sentinel without Ethan at my side, but I did like the idea of playing Sentinel without constantly fighting the chemistry between me and Ethan and the danger that brought with it.
He glanced down at his watch. “In case you’re vaguely curious, Darius will undoubtedly be back for additional threats, but he’ll eventually retire to the Trump. Some combination of jet and vampire lag. If you were to head to the bar at, let’s say, three o’clock, you’d probably miss him entirely.”
“How unfortunate.” The deal struck, I headed for the door. “I’ll keep you posted on any pertinent drink specials.”
“Sentinel?”
I glanced back.
“Next time you’re feeling chatty, don’t forget to check the room first.”
It wasn’t healthy, I could admit. I knew sponge cake and marshmallow cream weren’t the cure for physical frustration, that a long run through Hyde Park or a training session with Luc would have cured me better than calories might have.
But that didn’t make my fourth Mallocake—a processed and hydrogenated log of chocolate sponge cake filled with marshmallow cream so sugary it left your teeth gritty—any less delicious than the third had been.
Mallory had discovered Mallocakes one night at a convenience store in Bucktown. There were only a few stores in Chicago that sold them, which made her burgeoning love for the things —sparked in part because of the similarities in their names—that much more inconvenient.
Mallocakes were made by a mom-and-pop bakery in Indiana that shipped them out only once a month, which made them harder to find.
But pain in the rear that they were to acquire, I couldn’t fault her taste.
They were
The chocolate sponge cake was just the right balance of tangy chocolate and not-too-sweet cake, which matched up perfectly against a cream filling that reeked of sugar. There were a few hundred calories in a single dose, and each box boasted half a dozen cellophane-wrapped cakes. They were a self-pity sesh just waiting to happen.
On the other hand, I was a vampire. They couldn’t hurt me. Whatever criticisms you might level against Ethan for making me a vampire, I had a crazy-fast metabolism and no obvious means of weight gain.
A smarter vampire might have tried blood, satiated the need with a bag or two of type O or AB. But Mallocakes were so very human. And sometimes a girl needed to stay in touch with her humanity. Sometimes a girl needed breakfast that didn’t involve flax or wheatgrass or organic free-range cruelty-free whole grains. Besides, we were the only beings alive who could eat processed sugar and carbs with impunity—why not go for it, right?
Mallocakes, it was.
Really, it was a celebration prompted by the fact that the day’s paper didn’t reveal word one about last night’s rave. Things may not have gone smoothly in the House when I’d returned, but a quiet press was still a victory we needed.
And so, one small victory and two thousand calories later, I stuffed empty cellophane wrappers into the trash and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. I’d had my snack, so it was time to get back to work.
Jeff answered before the first ring was complete. “Merit!”
“Talk to me, Jeff. Any news on that phone number?”
“Not a damn thing. It was assigned to a disposable phone, and the account has no other outgoing messages or calls. Just the one text. And I didn’t find any record of purchase in my merchant-data file for the minutes or the phone itself, so it was probably cash on both those transactions.”
“Hmm. That’s a bummer. And for the record, I’m very disturbed you’ve got merchant-data records.”
“It’s only mildly illegal. Hey, you want me to make you disappear from the financial system? I can do that. Even the Fed couldn’t find you.
They are such noobs over there.”
There was too much enthusiasm in his voice for my comfort. I was the granddaughter of a cop, after all. On
