The Judas Contact (Boomers Book 1) (11 page)

But what if physical preparation wasn’t the only thing he needed? What if he needed time to prepare himself emotionally and mentally?
If he wasn’t used to physical touch, to physical contact, the act might be difficult for him to experience. Dogs were like that, particularly abused dogs. Wild animals didn’t trust touch, not when an open hand could become a fist and deliver harm.

Shoulders straightening, she reached for the shampoo. Her tears dried up as she flexed her wrist once, testing its mobility, before beginning to scrub her hair. He needed to be desensitized to casual touch. He had to get used to it. She could do it with gloves, touch his arms, his chest, his shoulders…

A shudder rippled through her. The chest beneath her hand earlier had been strong, sturdy, and so warm, despite all the layers he wore. She’d felt his heat, it had scorched her senses. His heart had thudded a steady cadence, powerful and determined, just like him.

She would begin with an apology.

Then she would begin the assault on his senses. He needed to feel comfortable with her, with her hands on him…

A tingling spread through her belly and her nipples hardened. The small smile on his lips earlier gave her pause. He looked good scowling, but smiling—smiling he looked better than good. She wanted to see him smile more.

She wanted him to smile at her.

Ridiculous as the thought was, her body responded to the images. She wanted to wrap her arms around all that strength, all that power, and she wanted to hug him. She sucked in a breath.
Focus on the fact that he needs this, not you.

Finished, she shut off the water and wrapped a towel around herself before stepping out. Uncertainty bubbled through her and, as uncomfortable a sensation as that was, it was the desire dovetailing that feeling that worried her more. This was why she didn’t want to stop working. Stopping gave her time to think and to feel.

She liked Garrett.

No, “like” was too tame a word for the way her muscles trembled and her palms itched when he was around. She wanted him. The only thing fighting the urge to caress him was the need to understand the chip in his brain—explore it, define it, and solve it.

Then we fix the touching problem.
Not that she had any idea of how to do that, but she would find a way.

He deserves the simple pleasure of someone holding his hand, caressing his cheek, kissing—stop. Sleep. Get some damn sleep.

Running a brush through her damp hair, she left the towel folded on the sink and padded barefoot and naked over to the bed.

Does he sleep naked?

She flicked off the light. The outer shutters were already closed and the room plunged into darkness. She needed to sleep, not imagine him naked. The sheets were cool against her skin and she sighed.

Too late.

Garrett nudged open the door to her room. The low light filtering from the hallway spilled across the bed, illuminating blonde hair spread out against pillows. She lay with one arm up above her head and the other stretched out across a pillow. The sheet dragged down revealing her full breasts straining at the thin chemise covering them. Her scent was stronger in the room, whispers of lavender and the barest hint of something fruitier, but he didn’t recognize it.

His watch told him it had been two hours since he sent her up the stairs to sleep. He’d managed the sketchiest of naps, but he wanted to wake her at the time they’d agreed to.
And you wanted to make sure she was okay.
After the door slammed earlier, he’d heard nothing from her. The water turned on in her room and he’d pictured her in the shower.

A mistake.
Sleep proved impossible from that point.

Her steady breathing didn’t waver. He didn’t want to wake her up, despite their tacit agreement to a two-hour rest. He could slip back out and leave her to sleep. But, instead of closing the door, he walked further into the darkened bedroom. Moving on quiet feet, he edged right up to the bed. Asleep, her brow relaxed and her expression softened, she looked far younger than the spitfire that argued with him and didn’t have the good sense to back down from his temper.

Anticipation thrummed through him, and he stretched out his gloved hand, focusing every ounce of willpower to quiet his curse. She shifted as his palm hovered over her right breast. The sheets slipped further, revealing a sweet thigh, and his body tightened reflexively. When she quieted, he brushed her skin, a light touch, but even the muffled contact with the glove was a thrill.

Her heart beat slow and even, matching perfectly with the deep, soft whispers of her breath. The warmth of her seeped through the gloves and, beneath the layers, his palm tingled.
Control.

The stern reminder did little to quiet the urge to test the smoothness of her skin. Limiting himself to his forefinger and thumb, he glided his hand back and forth across her skin. A murmur of sound halted him. His gaze jerked up to her face, but her eyes remained closed. Unfortunately, her mouth parted and her pink tongue peeked out and stroked along her lower lip. The action shot through him like a bolt of lightning, igniting his nerves and stiffening his cock.

Lust was not a new feeling for him. He hadn’t lied when he told her no one touched him, not ever. He didn’t allow them to touch him. But if he was careful, if he bound up the woman so that she couldn’t touch him, and if he gloved his hands and his cock, he could touch her. He could focus on the contact, one step at a time. He was always careful to never let his bare skin come into contact with theirs—except for his mouth. But he could focus on keeping the toxins from his mouth. He could focus and he could touch them—a little nibble along a pebbled breast, a gliding tongue through the sweet folds of her sex, a swirl of contact to her clit—if he was careful.

Twenty-five years ago, he hadn’t been so lucky. He’d found a woman in an underground fetish club. She’d enjoyed the lifestyle. She didn’t question his need to control her or the fact that he refused her permission to touch him. He’d pleasured her for hours, enjoying the soft little cries she’d made. He’d used toys, his fingers, and once, just once, his mouth. He remembered the quivering throb in her clit as she came apart for him. Only after she came for the second time had he given into the basic biological urge he’d come to that club to sate.

Bent over, her whole body facing away from him, he’d slid his condom-sheathed cock into her. It hadn’t taken much to come and it definitely took the edge off. He left without even the knowledge of her name. Two weeks later, he’d seen her photograph in the paper.

She had died.

No matter how much Simon assured him that her death was not related to the night they spent in the club, that she’d been sick well before that, Garrett knew it only took one tiny tear in a condom, one minute lack of focus on his part, and his poison could have leaked into her system. Maybe she’d been born with a bad heart.

But he couldn’t risk it.

Not with Ilsa. He drew his finger and thumb across one nipple and it beaded up tight under the chemise. The silk framed it perfectly. She should always wear silk. The fabric hugged her curves, emphasized them. She was so beautiful, she made his heart hurt.
Beautiful. Smart.

Temperamental.

Except for the ridiculous moment in the kitchen, she hadn’t been foolish or foolhardy. She didn’t understand the risk—not really. He would protect her from both of them. She shifted beneath his touch, the silk peeling down to bare the taut, little, raspberry colored nipple and he sighed.
Lovely and sweet.

Raspberries were his favorite. Tart, with a sharp flavor, but the underlying sweetness made them a rare treat. He had them once when he was growing up. He never forgot their flavor. A month after arriving back in time, he’d found a restaurant that served them and ate them until he made himself sick.

But he never forgot how much he loved their sweetness.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He told himself
just one touch
, but his gloved fingers glided back and forth across the hard little tip. The soft murmur of her breath elevated and she moaned.

The low husky note of it should have told him it was time to back off, but it was as though his hand had a mind of its own. He teased the nipple, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger until it puckered and she arched upwards. He caught sight of her eyes as they opened and a flush pink filled her face. She stretched her hand out to him and he shook his head.

You can control a kiss. One kiss. One touch. You can handle it.
The demonic little voice of lust woke up with a vengeance. “Put your hands behind your head.” He almost hoped she’d balked at the order—that she would keep reaching. He could refuse her then. It wouldn’t be safe, especially after her behavior in the kitchen.

She drew back her hand, sweet hesitation in the gesture, and then, slowly, almost too slowly for him, tucked both hands under her head. The action lifted her chest and the silk top slid down further, baring the whole breast. He cupped her with a palm, shaping his gloved hand around it, thumb still skimming the nipple.

Another low moan escaped her throat and her eyes darkened. He smiled. He’d caused her to make that sound. He massaged her breast and skimmed his free hand over the other nipple until it pebbled as hard as the first. For the barest of seconds, he wished he could strip off the gloves and feel the warm softness of her skin, trace the ridges formed by the puckered nipples. Reality shut down that possibility. He was touching her. That was enough. Her legs shifted beneath the sheets. She was so responsive.

She needed this more than he did. The sweet play could satisfy him for days, but arousing her without satisfying her wouldn’t be fair. A rational whisper in his mind demanded to know what he was doing, but he ignored it. He couldn’t focus on the whys, only the how. He needed his concentration on his control. It had to be absolute.

Releasing her breast, he caught the sheet and peeled it downwards. She wore a pair of panties that matched the top. Emboldened by the additional layer of fabric, he ran his knuckles back and forth across the plane that dipped between her thighs. Her legs spread, obediently. His heart jerked again. He accepted the invitation and added a little pressure to the rub between her legs. He wanted to peel the panties down, to see if she was as wet as he could imagine, but he fought that urge. So far beyond that single touch he’d promised himself.

Ilsa writhed against the bed, her legs moving up and down as he teased one breast and her sex. He found her clit through the panties and rolled two fingers around it. Her body arched and she rose up. His mind locked. It was like watching a car collision. Her hands came to his shoulders and her lips met his for the first time. Everything stopped, but the feeling of her mouth parting beneath his, like a flower, and the feeling of her tongue sliding along the seam of his lips. His cock jerked and he came, as though sinking deep inside of her.

He had to stop, but she tasted better than she felt. The purely feminine scent of her wrapped around him and his control fishtailed, slipping, for just a second. She convulsed against him, her teeth sinking into his lip and he jerked back.

“No—no—” Horror exploded in his chest. Her eyes went opaque and white, her body’s shudders snapping her back as though something cracked her spine and she collapsed.

Dead.

“NO!” The force of the bellow dragged him upright and Garrett launched off the bed.

His bed.

In his room.

Sweat dripped down his chest and his cock hung damp and used against his leg. He’d come all over the sheets. In his room.

“My room.” He repeated the thought out loud, trying to control his ragged breathing. But his skin was on fire, like a thousand ants marched over him. “We were in her room—”

He crossed over the bed at a run, grabbing his coat and using it to open first his door then, a half dozen steps down the hall, hers. The light spilled across her bed. She jerked upright against the sheets, her full, lush breasts bared by the sheet.

She wasn’t wearing a chemise.

She wasn’t dead.

Relief pounded through him.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, dragging the sheet up to cover herself.

Garrett didn’t answer, just shut the door and staggered back to his room. He barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up. His cock throbbed against his belly, stiff again from the sight of her.

But she was alive.

I didn’t kill her…

* * * *

“I made breakfast.” She held out the plate as a peace offering when Garrett strode into the kitchen, dressed in head to toe black. His gloves were in place, as was his scowl.

She’d shut off the alarm when lustful dreams invaded her rest. As much as she wanted to get back to work, the feeling of his hands on her breasts in her dreams were too good to ignore. It had been a long time since she’d had a dream like that. Waking up to his nude body standing in the doorway didn’t help, either.

She showered for a second time and dressed before coming downstairs to fix food. Omelets were easy enough. Some eggs, some cheese, and an onion. She chopped, diced, mixed, and fried. She even brewed a fresh pot of coffee—the kind he liked, not the hazelnut version. She’d even added an extra half-cup of the grounds to the maker since he liked his sludge.

As peace offerings went, it was her best attempt in five years. She slid the plate across the counter to him and set the mug next to it before retreating across the kitchen. He watched her with too quiet eyes and silence.

“Look, I’m sorry about trying to touch your face earlier.” She picked up a fork and made a show of eating. What she couldn’t control was the grimace at the flavor. Garlic flooded her mouth. She hadn’t used garlic. Her gaze swung over to the stove and the powder container. She’d grabbed the salt.

Or maybe she hadn’t…dammit.

It took everything she had to swallow that one mouthful. At least the vampires wouldn’t be coming for her. Her eyes watered and she grabbed the coffee. A drink to wash the nasty flavor out didn’t help much. The bitter flavor burned her throat, too thick, too hard, and not enough sugar in the world to lighten it up.