Were we boyfriend and girlfriend now?
I loved Tristen, and he’d nearly died for me. What did I owe him, in life? What did I want to give him? I didn’t know.
I wanted him, badly. But I wanted time, too. Even though my stomach tickled with attraction when his fingers stroked my throat, I couldn’t help tensing and putting one hand on his shoulder, in case I’d have to stop him again—not because he was a beast, but because he was a man.
But suddenly, when Tristen once again somehow opened my tight, nervous lips, as surely and effortlessly as he picked every other lock that blocked his path, and our tongues touched for the second time that night, twining around each other, drinking each other in . . . suddenly a shudder rippled through my entire body.
I didn’t shake with fear or cold or tremble with lust or longing or love, even. No, what I felt was all that and more, including a violent stab of pain that was so pure it could only be described as pleasure.
What I experienced was me . . . transforming.
And, oh, did it feel wickedly good.
Chapter 47
Jill
“TRISTEN,” I MOANED—pleaded—slipping my hand from his shoulder and wrapping my arm around his neck, pressing our chests together, rubbing against him. “Come on, Tristen, please.”
Suddenly I was impatient with him and for him. My side ached, and I held it with my other hand, wanting even more pain, more action.
Too much tenderness . . . not enough friction . . . What is he waiting for?
“Jill,” Tristen muttered against my roving mouth, my searching lips. “Jill!”
Too much talking . . . not enough touching . . .
I slipped around to climb aboard his lap. Let’s see what you’ve got there . . .
But he caught my hips and stopped me, pushing back. “Easy, Jill,” he said, half laughing but sounding confused, too. “It’s not a race. Or a rodeo!”
Oh, but it is a race . . . a race to the finish . . .
I pried at Tristen’s fingers, wanting our hips to get better acquainted.
In response, he clutched me more firmly, actually lifted me off his lap and set me back on the floor while I struggled to keep our tongues engaged, which only caused us both to sprawl sideways in a tangled, messy heap, and suddenly we weren’t kissing anymore; we were wrestling. And not in the way I wanted to wrestle.
“Jill,” he said firmly, no longer amused but sounding doubly baffled. He held me at bay with one hand on my shoulder. “Slow down—or at least let me lead a bit, too.”
I sat up, staring at him in disbelief. Is that was this is about? Male pride? “Fine,” I agreed, shrugging. “Go ahead. Lead.” As long as we get the deed done, what do I care?
But apparently Tristen had changed his mind entirely. He sat on the floor looking at me with concern, not desire, in his eyes. “Jill,” he said, studying my face and massaging my shoulder. “Let’s just stop for a moment, eh? This doesn’t feel right to me.” He shook his head, clearly puzzled. “Something isn’t right.”
He’s joking, right? Boy. Girl. Dark room. Nothing wrong with that scenario—except that we have our clothes on.
“Come on, Tristen,” I begged, reaching out for him. “Let’s keep going!”
He caught my wrist with his free hand. “No. Not right now, Jill. I think this whole night has been overwhelming for both of us. You seem a bit . . . frantic.”
Yes, frantic. And hot and bothered, for him. What is wrong with that?
“It’s getting late,” Tristen added, rising. He held out his hand, pulling me up, too. “I need to make some more formula then get you home.”
Ahh, the formula. I licked my lips again, distracted from sex. “You do?”
“Yes,” Tristen said, moving behind the lab table. He seemed to get edgy. Almost cagey, not meeting my eyes. “I want to mix up more—in case I need it.”
“I’ll help,” I volunteered. Help and learn.
“No,” Tristen replied too quickly. “I’ll do it.”
Is he hiding something from me? I watched suspiciously as he arranged the beakers and vials, working fast. “But I could help you,” I offered again.
The pain in my side was subsiding, becoming a dull ache, and my head was starting to clear. I felt weird, like the hormones that had just caused me to act so boldly, so embarrassingly forward, were filtering out of my brain.
“You could start to clean up, I suppose,” Tristen suggested. “If you don’t mind? We could get out of here sooner.”
I didn’t want to be his janitor, but I was really starting to feel sheepish about how I’d just attacked him, so I agreed. “Sure.”
“Could you repack my bag?” Tristen requested, nodding toward a pile of papers and books as he poured something that I couldn’t identify into a new flask. The mixture bubbled.
Delicious. I shook my head, not sure why such a weird word had popped into my head, and joined Tristen at the lab desk, stacking papers that were scattered across the surface, like in his hurry to mix the formula, he’d dumped his whole bag onto the table. And when I lifted his bent, crumpled lab manual, I saw the novel, which Tristen hadn’t allowed me to hold before.
Lifting it, I opened the cover and saw that someone had written inside.
To Tristen . . .
But suddenly The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde snapped shut in my hands, causing me to jump back and drop it to the table, where Tristen scooped it up, stealing it out of reach. “We don’t need that anymore, Jill,” he said. “I’m done with that.”
I watched Tristen’s face and saw that his new peace was already shattered. I didn’t
