Made for Sin (17 page)

He should have wondered why that was. He should have been suspicious—should have tried to analyze her motives and scan the room for weapons or potential weapons, or possible escape routes. All of those things he would ordinarily do the first time he entered any place or room, he should have been doing then. Being exhausted was no excuse.

Speaking of no excuses. He took a deep breath, while she busied herself collecting a white towel from the cabinet beneath the sink. “I really am sorry.”

“What?” She set the towel on a white metal rack next to the tub and came to stand in front of him. Right in front of him. “Why?”

“I—what I said to you. What it said to you, back there—what it did, grabbing you like that—”

“That wasn't you.”

She was really not making this apology easy for him. Not that she had to, or that she wasn't already doing way more for him than he deserved. A bath. She'd actually run him a bath, like he was some kind of hero instead of the freak who'd attacked her an hour or two before. “But I was there. I should have been able to stop it before it—I knew what it wanted. It plans, and it makes sure I know—what are you doing?”

Her fingers slipped back out from beneath the hem of his shirt. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Helping you get your shirt off. Isn't that obvious?”

“Why?”

“Do you want to wear your clothes in the tub?”

“No, but you—”

“Then shut up.” She reached for the hem again.

He grabbed her hands in his.

He'd meant only to stop her, and nothing more, but something changed the second his skin touched hers. Something in the air, in his head and chest. Something in her eyes, wide open and unafraid when they met his.

His heart pounded. Suddenly the aches in his muscles, the fuzziness in his brain, didn't seem to matter; they faded into the background, disappeared. Suddenly even the beast seemed not to matter, as if it was already gone, as if he was alone in his head. Free.

Slowly, without taking his eyes from hers, he reached up and grabbed his shirt at the back of his neck. Waiting for her to stop him. Waiting for her to leave the room, to say no to him without having to say the actual word. He didn't want to hear the word.

He didn't hear it. She just stood there, her chest barely moving. Watching him.

She disappeared for a second while he tugged the shirt over his head, reappeared in exactly the same place, in exactly the same position, when it was off. He dropped it on the floor by his feet.

Her gaze wandered over his chest, examining the scars, lingering on the count and understanding it this time. He could almost feel it slide from one shoulder to the other, then drop, slowly, down his abdomen to pause below his belt, where he knew she could see what her inspection was doing to him—what she was doing to him.

He couldn't stand it anymore. Whatever was or wasn't happening, whatever she did or didn't want, he couldn't stand not knowing anymore. He couldn't stand being there with her in that warm, steamy little room without touching her. If he'd misread her, if she pushed him away and left, then at least he'd know. At least he wouldn't be looking at her there, achingly lovely and so desirable it was hard to breathe, and thinking that all he needed to do was reach for her and she was his. If she rejected him—the way she should; she should reject him and he shouldn't even be giving her the chance to reject him—so be it.

He let his gaze wander just as freely, just as frankly, over her torso before meeting her eyes again. His voice, when he managed to get it to work, sounded hoarse and thick in his ears. Probably because, mirror or not, he shouldn't be saying what he was about to say. “Your turn.”

Her face flushed. This was it, this was the moment where he'd find out just how wrong he'd been. She was going to tell him to fuck right off, and he would deserve it for even dreaming she might be willing to touch him.

But she didn't say that. She lifted her chin a little, challenging. Seeing if he was serious. “Why?”

“No,” he said. “You know why, and I don't want to play that game right now—I don't think I'm up for it, frankly. Take it off. Take it off or get out, your choice.”

He expected her to hesitate—well, if he expected her to do anything other than tell him to go to hell, and maybe slap him on her way out the door. He didn't expect her to remove her striped shirt with the speed and grace of a ballerina, and to stand there with her hair falling down over her shoulders, her head up, letting him examine her just as closely as she'd examined him. Exposing herself to him the same way he had.

He had to remind himself to breathe. Her shirts, snug as they were, couldn't come close to this. All that smooth, pale skin, the tiny divot of her belly button, the way her rib cage narrowed into her waist and her hips flared back out. A light smattering of freckles dusted her shoulders; he wanted to kiss each one of them. He wanted to—couldn't wait to—run his fingertips over the intricate black lace of her bra, to unhook it and let it fall from her shoulders to the floor and to feel her bare breasts against his chest.

Something in his head tried again to remind him why this was wrong. A voice, a small, reasonable, responsible voice that he didn't want to hear, tried to remind him that he wasn't free yet, that he might not get to be free, and that Ardeth deserved better than him. It was all true. It was true that if he didn't put a stop to this immediately he'd be doing something worse than he'd done in a long time—both to her and to himself.

It was true, and he knew it.

But he didn't stop it. He couldn't. All he could think of was how desperate he felt, how much he wanted her. How if he could have decapitated himself to get rid of the beast at that moment, if he could have traded his arms and legs for getting rid of it, he would have, as long as he could have her once before the men came with the surgical saws. Just once.

And she was there, waiting for him, offering something so much more than just her body, and no matter what his head said to him, he couldn't turn away from that. He literally, physically, could not.

He grabbed her, spun her around—it was sickeningly like what the beast had done earlier, and he knew that but he didn't have a choice unless he wanted them to fall into the tub—so her back hit the wall, and kissed her. Hard. Deep. The way he'd wanted to kiss her since, oh, about twenty minutes after they'd met.

It was even better than he'd expected it to be. It was way more intense than he'd expected it to be. This wasn't some random woman, some sexy stranger he'd taken home because they'd liked the spark in each other's eyes. This was Ardeth whose slim, light body he yanked closer to his, Ardeth whose arms wound around him and whose fingers dug into his bare skin. Ardeth who kissed him back just as hard, whose lips parted beneath his so he could slip his tongue between them to find hers.

This was trouble. Big trouble, because he couldn't let go of her. He wanted to—no, he didn't want to, he knew he needed to. He had to. Had he forgotten all of the extremely sensible and correct reasons why this couldn't happen? Reasons he'd just considered again not two minutes earlier?

Apparently he had, or at least most of him had, and those were the parts that were in charge. His lips refused to give hers up, except to taste the skin of her throat, to find her pulse there and suck on it, to let his teeth join in just a little…just enough for her soft gasp to reach his ears. His heart raced like a trifecta winner; his right hand slid down her spine, over her perfect, perfect bottom, squeezing it and pulling it even tighter against him, against that other part that throbbed and ached. His left hand twisted in her hair, that soft hair that sparkled around her face and made him think of sunsets and safety, and clutched at the back of her head. His chest pressed against hers, feeling her breasts against it, her heart pounding along with his. If there was some way his feet and legs could have gotten in on the act, they would have. It was only his brain, his goddamned stupid
brain,
that had any ideas other than getting her pants off right that second, and it was rapidly losing what little fight it was putting up.

Especially since Ardeth had joined the battle against it. Her palms wandered feverishly across his back and down over his ass, leaving trails of soft fire behind them. Where she touched, his skin screamed with pleasure; where her hands left or hadn't been it begged for attention.

And she seemed determined to see that it got it. Everywhere. She stroked his arms, down his sides. She ran her fingertips across his stomach, just above his belt, and then down the length of his cock through his jeans so his entire body shivered at once and the breath he was having such a hard time catching left him entirely. Fuck, he had to stop this, stop it. He was going to have to say goodbye to her afterward, and every second he stood there with her, every second he felt her melting into him, was only going to make it worse when that happened.

But his fingers kept going, dipping between her legs where she burned with heat even through her jeans. She gasped. His other hand, emboldened by that gasp, insinuated itself up her rib cage until it found her breast, her nipple hard beneath her lacy bra. When he let his thumb play over it, when he caught it between his fingers and rolled it ever so slightly, gave it a gentle pinch, she gasped again. So did he. She was so lithe, so alive, in his arms. She was salvation, something he'd wanted all his life but had long since given up hope of finding. And she was there. Ready. Willing. Wanting him. God help him, what was he supposed to do when faced with that? How was he supposed to say no?

He couldn't. His brain lost the battle.

He gripped her thigh, both of her thighs, encouraging her to wrap them around him. To give him her weight. As tempting as it was to strip off whatever clothing was necessary and take her there, against the wall, it wasn't what he wanted.

“You can't,” she whispered, still kissing him, still touching him. “Your muscles—it'll hurt—”

As if that could stop him. As if he could feel anything like pain at that moment, anyway. “I'm fine.”

He hoisted her up, flipping the still-slightly-ajar door all the way open with his foot, and carried her into the soft darkness of her bedroom while her lips and teeth played with his neck.

No candles in there to alleviate the effect of the drawn blackout curtains, but enough warm flickering light escaped through the open bathroom doorway that he could find the bed. His brain put up one final ghost of a fight as he climbed onto the wide white expanse of it to lay her down beneath him, telling him this was his last chance to do the right thing, his last chance to avoid more pain. For her and for him.

But he couldn't, and that had nothing to do with the fact that the instant she hit the bed she reached for his belt buckle and started opening it, that by the time the thought had finished forming she had his zipper halfway down and her hand was just about to reach inside. Or, it had very little to do with it. He just couldn't refuse the chance she was offering him, the chance to know how it felt to be with a woman he truly cared about—not just liked well enough to take home for the night but cared about. And to know that she was there because she cared about him. Just once in his life he wanted to feel that. Fuck the consequences and fuck the pain he knew he'd be in later; this was his chance, and he was fucking taking it.

And he was not wasting any more time. His efforts to unfasten her jeans were hampered by the fact that she'd found what she was looking for; her fingers closed around his cock and started moving, driving every bit of rational thought out of his head. The buttons, the zipper, were machines too complex for him to deal with when she was doing that, when her tongue danced with his and her body undulated beneath him and her hand, that skilled, delicate hand, drove gasps from his throat.

He couldn't work the bra while she did that, either, but he pushed the cup out of the way so he could let his tongue play over her nipple, and then, when she gave a little sigh of approval, close his mouth over it. Another sigh, louder; her free hand played with his hair and her leg tried to wrap itself around him.

Which reminded him. Her jeans finally yielded to him, exposing more black lace. Nice—more than nice—but not what he wanted. One solid tug solved that problem, and one twist of his fingers finally took care of the bra, leaving her naked. For him. So he could look at every inch of her.

And he intended to do so. She reached for him again, probably to get his own jeans off, but he grabbed her wrist and planted it back on the mattress.

The beast muttered in his head. He ignored it and slammed the thickest mental wall he could down in front of it. It was getting its sin; he couldn't change that. He couldn't hide what was happening from it and he couldn't keep it from feeding off it, but it was not getting Ardeth. It didn't get to feel her skin beneath his hands, taste it beneath his lips as they traveled down her chest, down her stomach, down farther still as he urged her thighs apart.

Her entire body tensed when he slid his tongue between them. So did his, because that, too, was everything he'd imagined and more. She was so delicate, her hot, slick flesh so soft. He explored it slowly, wandering along each fold, finding the spots she seemed to like best but barely touching the one he knew would be most responsive. He wasn't ready to end it, not yet. Instead he teased her, coming close and then dancing away, again and again, encouraged by her soft sighs. Losing himself in them, in her. Feeling her tremble and knowing he was the reason.

Just like she was the reason he was shaking, the reason his heart pounded, the reason he was dizzy.

The tenor of her cries changed; her thighs spread wider, her hips tilted up. Begging him now, begging without saying the words. He looked up to see her torso rising above him, her back slightly arched, her hands clutching the sheets, twisting them. Completely in his power as he finally let his tongue play over the firm little bundle of flesh at her center, circling it, sliding across it.