“I suspect so.” Rans hitched my body a little tighter against his. “Come on, tough girl. Let’s go find you a bed.”
My belly tightened at the innocent words. God, I was such a sick puppy.
Even as out of it as I was, I could tell that Guthrie’s penthouse apartment was amazing. I wondered if he lived here alone. It certainly didn’t look like he had kids—everything was too perfect, too untouched. I had a vague impression of subtle, soothing colors and expensive artwork as we moved through living spaces and down hallways.
Then we were in a pristine, beautifully appointed bedroom that smelled like lavender and fresh cotton. Rans eased me down to sit on the edge of the queen-sized bed. The mattress was as soft as eiderdown beneath me. Part of me wanted to collapse backward into the bed’s pillowy support and never move again, but another part clamored in protest when Rans’ grip on me eased and pulled away completely.
Without even realizing I was doing it, I shot a hand out to twist in the cotton of his black t-shirt. He stayed bent over, watching my face, his glacier-blue eyes level with mine.
“How did you find me tonight?” I asked. “How could you possibly have known to come to the station at exactly that moment, so you could save me?”
His lips twitched into something that tried to be a smile, but his pale eyes were watching me, intent and piercing.
“Stalker, remember?” he said lightly.
I did remember. I remembered the way he’d showed up in my section at AJ’s the day after he’d bitten me. I remembered him calling me an enigma, and the way he’d seemed to pull back from the conversation when I told him I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Get some rest, Zorah,” he said in an even tone. “I need to figure out what to do about... all of this.”
I stared into those depthless eyes, trying to see inside him.
“Okay,” I said, feeling decidedly detached from reality at this point. “But... there’s one thing, before you go...”
A small furrow formed between his dark brows. “Yes?”
“Just this.” Without thinking, I used my grip on his shirt to pull him forward, closing the few inches between us until I could seal my lips over his.
THIRTEEN
RANS REMAINED VERY STILL while I made a spirited attempt to perform a tonsillectomy on him using my tongue. Distantly, I knew that his lack of response should constitute a red flag of some sort, but all of my social skills were currently buried under an avalanche of want and need.
He’d ridden in on a black motorcycle and rescued me from a fate worse than death with a fucking sword. I needed him. I needed the press of lips against mine, the touch of skin on skin, the connection of bodies meeting. It was wrong, and humiliating, and pathetic, and right now I didn’t care about any of that. I just cared about my tongue sliding against his.
Rans’ hands hovered an inch above my shoulders for an endless moment before he grasped me gently and eased me back. I heard the pitiful noise of distress I made in response, and part of me hated it. That noise did not belong to the person I pictured when I pictured myself. Only... it did, didn’t it? This was me, craning forward to try to reach the lips that remained just out of reach. This was me, panting shallow breaths as I tried to get back to the man who was pushing me away.
“This is going to be bloody complicated, I can tell already,” Rans murmured, so low I could barely make it out. Then, louder, “Zorah. Look at me. Try to focus.”
I was looking at him, though—watching those curved lips move as they caressed the words.
“Eyes up, soldier,” he said, and I dragged my gaze from his lips to his eyes with difficulty. “That’s better.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Why were we talking when I could be kissing him? Why did I feel like this?
“What’s wrong? Quite a number of things, as it happens,” he said. “Don’t worry—I’m keeping a list for reference purposes. Right now, though, the item at the top... is you. I’m about to do something we both may regret. For what it’s worth, though, you can always slap me afterward, when you’re feeling better and you’ll be able to put a bit of welly into it.”
I stared at him, trying to get my neurons to connect. “Are you even speaking English right now?” I asked.
He stared back. “Am I speaking English? Of all the cheek! Bloody Americans... I don’t know why I even bother.”
“Yeah, me neither,” I said, and pulled him toward me again.
This time, he didn’t resist, cool lips slanting over mine as he pressed me back to lie on the decadent mattress. He followed me down, and every nerve in my body sang with the rightness of it. I writhed and moaned beneath the sweet slide of his tongue against mine.
The feel of a strong hand gliding over the contours of my body unknotted the painful tension in my muscles bit by bit. The ache of chronic illness morphed into a delicious ache of lust, and my trembling exhaustion eased into trembling anticipation. He was bracing himself above me on one bent arm as he kissed me, his elbow planted by my shoulder on the bed. His other hand slid over my belly, then lower. My legs fell open, inviting, and he cupped me through my jeans.
He didn’t tease, thank god. His fingers rubbed between my legs with firm pressure. I was wet; I could feel the material of my panties sliding against my sex... feel the dampness where Rans pressed against me. The seam of the blue jeans offered an edge of stimulation against my clit, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough. I needed more, everything, all of it right now.
I scrabbled at the fastenings, tugging at
