Edge of Oblivion

isn’t it?”

Xander moaned, low, a tortured sound. She inched nearer. Her hand slid down to his chest, her fingers curled around the front of his shirt. She tugged at it.

“I can’t—can’t take advantage of you when you’re like this,” he said, his voice hoarse, his nose filled with her heady scent as she pulled him closer, closer—

“I know,” she murmured, coaxing, “you’re the gentleman assassin. You’d kill me before you’d take advantage of me. But I...” Her hands cradled his face. Her soft lips touched his cheek, his chin, his mouth, and his will began to crack. “...I can take advantage of you. We can hate each other later, Xander, but for one night, just for tonight, let’s be the best of friends.”

She slid her tongue between his lips, and then he shattered.

He crushed her to him. She was velvet and fire and soft curves, shaking in his arms, pulling his head down hard with both hands wrapped around his neck and her body arched against him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even think. All he could do was feel, so he let the fury in his heart and body take over.

As another boom of thunder shook the windows in the house above, Xander pushed her back against the mattress, stared down, panting, at her. She stared back with that same hungry look, expectant now, her lips parted, cherry red against her white teeth. Her hair spread dark and curling wet over the pillow; her hands reached up to touch the hem of his shirt, to tug it free from the waist of his pants.

He tore it off. He couldn’t get everything off fast enough. She helped him, shaking, both of them shaking and panting and kissing all the while, touching and exploring while his clothes fell to the floor. He rolled on top of her, and she ran her hands over his back, stroking the scars there with something like reverence.

“My beautiful assassin,” she said against his mouth, her voice so tender it hurt.

“No,” he said, hoarse, his palm cupped around her face. “Tonight I’m not an assassin. Tonight it’s only Alexander and Morgan. Tonight it’s only me and you.” He kissed her, hard and delicious, and her legs lifted to wrap around his waist.

She writhed against him, ready, but he wasn’t ready. He wanted to taste and explore and take his sweet time, because he knew this was only a one-time pass; tomorrow it would be over. Tomorrow she would be back to hating him as she had from the beginning.

But tonight...

He tangled his hands in her hair, pulled her head back to expose her throat. He kissed from the soft spot below her ear all the way to her collarbone, skipping over the cold links of the damned collar, wanting to rip it from her neck, free her from it. He stroked his tongue over the hollow in her throat, over the pulse that pounded there, her skin hot silk against his lips. She made a little noise of impatience and rocked her hips against his, the heat and wetness of her sex pressed against his erection, but he ignored her demands, focused instead on the beautiful curve of her breast in his palm, the weight of it, the satin texture and color, caramel tipped in raspberry.

He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking with his lips, lapping with his tongue. She gasped and arched against him, slid her hands into his hair. He bit down gently and she moaned his name.

It made his heart pound even faster. He wanted to hear her do it again.

He drew his tongue between her breasts, cupping them together in his palms, teasing her nipples with his thumbs. He slid his hands to her slender waist, over her soft belly, down her curved hips, letting his gaze follow his hands, learning her secrets, learning all those hidden places he’d fantasized about since the day they met.

The first of the rain began, drumming on the roof three stories above, just as he spotted a small, dark mark on her right hip: a tattoo. A fresh tattoo, he could tell from the ink. He moved to it, kissing his way down her body, then paused when he was close enough to discern it in the dim room.

In perfect, cursive letters, it read: Live free or die.

His breath left his lungs in a rush. For a moment he felt sick; he felt light-headed. Reeling with guilt and sudden self-loathing, he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against her soft stomach.

And of course she knew. Beautiful Morgan, mysterious Morgan, rash, defiant, intuitive Morgan —she felt his pain and understood.

“Xander. Xander. Xander,” she murmured, as if to say, Stop that, stay with me, look at me. She stroked her hands over his hair, and he lifted his head to stare up into her eyes. Vivid and searching, they were full of some emotion that made his heart ache. Softly she said, “We both know how to live broken. But the past is just that. Past. And the future is out of our hands. Neither one has a place here with us now. Let it all go and be with me.”

She slid down the bed when he stayed frozen with guilt and cupped his face in her hands. She said his name again, whispered it against his mouth, kissed him so gently he was gripped by a sudden, terrible urge to possess her, all of her, not just her body but her heart and her soul and every thought she might ever think and every emotion she might ever feel, all of it just so he could keep her here with him like this—soft and vulnerable and, yes, loving—forever.

Drawn into the rightness of her lips, Xander kissed her back. Warm and soft and tentative, it opened a door inside him that had been locked for years.

“Love me,” she whispered into his ear, and the door blew wide open.

He was lost now; he knew it. Somewhere in the darkest corner of his heart he’d known it all along. So he no longer bothered to hold anything back.

He let himself fall.

He reared up on his knees and stared down at her, let his hands drift over her body, his gaze following every stroke and kneading pinch. She arched to meet his touch. She gave a little, soft sigh, and her eyes closed.

He stroked his hands down her parted thighs, bent to test the tender flesh there with his teeth, with his tongue. She moaned and her hands were in his hair again, trembling. He licked his way down to where he really wanted to put his mouth, taking his time, teasing her because he loved the little moans and the rocking motion her hips made. He stopped just inches away from the most sensitive, secret part of her, a low growl rising in the back of his throat.

Ambrosia. Sugar and spices and hothouse flowers...she smelled like heaven.

He spread her open with his thumbs and blew a breath over her wet lips, just to make her say his name again, which she did. He dipped his head and tasted her, and they both moaned at the same time.

Delicious. Perfect. Sweet and succulent and mine, mine, mine—

Heavy-handed instinct pounded through him. The beast in him took over.

He slid a finger inside her, abrupt, invasive. He sucked at her greedily, grazing her swollen nub with his teeth, licking her all over. He didn’t know if he was being gentle enough. He didn’t know how long he could hold himself back; she was moaning and rocking and gasping his name, her nails dug into his shoulders. With his free hand he cupped her breast, pinched the hard nipple, watched the effect it had on her, and reveled in it.

“Come for me,” he growled, and slid another finger inside her.

She cried out, her thighs trembling against his shoulders, her body taut as a bowstring beneath him. She froze for a moment and even seemed to stop breathing. Then it began, a little throbbing clench against the fingers he’d thrust inside her, and she shuddered.

“Xander, God, Xander,” she gasped, writhing.

With an animal snarl, he drew himself up her body and plunged himself deep inside her.

She cried out again, so did he. Fire and satin and tight wetness, she was like nothing he’d ever felt, and her orgasm was still coming, gripping the length of him buried inside her, a delicious friction that threatened to send him over the edge too soon—too soon—

Panting, he bent and kissed her lips. “I’m too close—I have to slow—stop—”

“No!” she groaned. “Don’t stop! We’ll do it again—and again—just don’t stop yet—”

“Morgan—”

“Xander.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders. She looked up into his eyes and took him deep with a feminine, fluid motion of her pelvis. “Don’t stop. ”

She kissed him and rocked beneath him and with her hips coaxed his body to where it wanted to go. He began to thrust, a primal motion disconnected from his will, which wanted him to slow, to be gentle—