by Devon Monk
“The Necromorph,” I said, my voice steady, “said he killed Dad. And I saw memories, Dad’s memories of a man with a knife and disks. It was the Necromorph before he changed. He killed my dad, and he has a disk, stuck in his neck.”
I took a breath, held it, keeping my calm.
“So, listen. I’m probably always going to be hurt. Some way or another. Hounding means I use magic, and using magic means pain. And wanting you might have something to do with hurting. But that’s not all. That’s not the only reason I want you.”
Zayvion looked away, past me, at the wall above my head. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, but I did not touch him. The decision was his to make too.
Finally, he looked down at me. He didn’t say anything, which was strange since I’d just given him what I assumed was pertinent information about the Necromorph he’d been hunting, and had also declared my true feelings about us. Seemed like either one of those things would be worth commenting on.
I found I could not read the look in his eyes. And that frightened me.
Wordlessly, he bent to me, his mouth searching for mine. He parted my lips with his own, gently kissing, coaxing. This, I understood. My lips were swollen and sore. I opened for him, wanting to taste him, needing to feel him inside me.
His hands slid behind my back, easing me away from the wall while his tongue dipped like honey, liquor, sex, in my mouth. I kissed him back, fumbling in my need for him. I gripped the back of his sweatshirt with my good hand and tried to pull. It hurt too much to make a fist with my right, so I scooped my hands beneath his sweatshirt instead and dragged my hands, fingers wide, up his back, so I could brace myself closer against him.
He caught the weight of me in his arms, then shifted, standing slowly, still kissing me as he helped me lie back down. He pulled away and straightened. For a moment, he stood there, almond eyes burning with gold, lips parted, nostrils flared. I wondered what he was waiting for.
I licked my lip and tasted blood.
Oh.
“Have you been tested?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’m clean.”
“It’s been a while since I have,” I said honestly. “I think I’m good. But things have been weird.” The bloody needle Lon Trager had stabbed in my thigh. Pike’s blood pouring into my open wounds as he lay dying in my arms. I’d had a lot of dangerous fluid transfer lately, and hadn’t asked if the doctors ran all the tests.
“God.” I threw my arm over my eyes. Blood in the bedroom wasn’t anything to rush into. I didn’t care how many medical advances there were. I didn’t care how many spells could extend a life—for a price. The kinds of diseases blood could transfer were deadly.
Zayvion pulled a tissue out of the box. “Here,” he said quietly.
I pulled my arm off my face. Zayvion stood there, holding a tissue for me. But I wasn’t looking at the tissue. He had taken off his shirt and held it in the other hand.
Sweet holy hells, that man was built. Thick chest, wide at the shoulder and narrower at the waist, muscles that moved beneath his mahogany skin as he offered the tissue to me again.
I took it, though I could not keep my hungry gaze off his body. “If you’re trying to torture me . . .” I began.
Zay didn’t even smile. “Yes?”
“Just don’t,” I said miserably. “Put your shirt back on.” I dabbed at my lips, my blood catching in the paper. It wasn’t a lot of blood. But it was enough. Too much.
“Think you can keep your mouth off me?” Zayvion asked.
“What?”
“Nola patched you up. You’re not bleeding anywhere else. The punctures in your shoulder are bandaged. So are your knuckles. And that headache is from a lump on your head, but not a cut.”
“So just my lips?”
“Just your lips.”
That list of wounds brought something else to mind. “Have I had a shower?”
“Do you want one?”
“Yes.”
“Going to let me help you with that?”
I met his gaze. There was a challenge there. Maybe a little bit of anger. I couldn’t tell what he was angry about. “Yes.”
Zayvion tossed his shirt at the foot of the bed. A casual, natural gesture, as if his clothes always belonged at the bottom of my bed. I pushed the blankets away, took his hand, and stood. The room spun a little. He put his arm around me and we walked down the hall to the bathroom.
My bathroom is small, and I don’t like tight places to begin with. But here, right now, in the darkness of predawn, I liked having Zayvion with me in this tiny space, in this tiny room.
He shut the door and locked it, which I thought was sort of strange, but that was okay. I liked a careful man.
I pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the water, adjusting it until it was hot, but not hot enough to burn.
Okay, now I needed some graceful way to get out of my sweater, undershirt, bra, jeans, and panties. With a bum shoulder, swollen knuckles, and bad equilibrium.
Joy.
Zayvion stepped behind me and spread his hands flat against my stomach.
“Can you do this?” he murmured against my neck.
My mind spun with a thousand ideas of what he might be asking me to do.
“Can you get undressed on your own?” he clarified.
“Maybe,” I said. Then, honestly, “No.”
I expected him to be quick to get me naked. But no. He took his time, drawing his fingers beneath my sweater and undershirt, across the soft skin of my lower stomach, just above the waistband of my jeans. I licked my lip, tasted the copper heat of my blood there, and bit the inside of my cheek instead to keep from making any sound. He traced a sideways figure eight, the symbol of infinity, across my stomach.
I wondered if it meant something, but then his hands were gone, catching the hem of my sweater. He moved to one side, gently pulled the sweater and sleeve over my good shoulder, the right, and then he was on the other side of me. I tried to help get my arm out, but he shushed me and pulled the sleeve and sweater off over my head, then down my arm without me having to move my shoulder at all.
He glanced at me, and I smiled.
“Smooth. You get a lot of practice undressing wounded girls?”
“It’s come up.”
I would have said something about that, but one look at his smile, and electric heat caught fire in my belly. The weight and need for him pressed at my chest, and dragged delicious warmth down my stomach to pool between my legs.
Next went the undershirt. Painless. After that, he moved behind me again and unhooked my bra.
I gasped at the warm, moist air that licked my skin as he pulled the strap off first my good arm, then down my bad arm. Once the bra was gone, he stood behind me again and brushed his fingertips slowly up my stomach, then my ribs, which I could feel on the right, but lost track of over the numbness of the scars on my left.
Hadn’t I worried about my scars? About if Zayvion would find them ugly, me ugly, because of them?
But he did not pause over the scars, did not pull away. His fingertips traced the curve beneath my breasts, lifting the weight of me. I leaned into the warm hardness of his bare chest and stomach and closed my eyes. I could feel his heartbeat, pounding, hard, strong. Still, he barely touched me as he traced gentle circles around my nipples. An aching sweetness bloomed beneath my skin. I arched my back and rolled my hip against his, wanting more. Wanting him. All of him.
He made a soft, deep sound, his body responding to my invitation, and plunged his fingertips down my stomach to the warmth beneath the waistband of my jeans.
He kissed the side of my neck, licking along the mark of magic at the curve, then sucking until fire and magic rose through me, answering his touch.
I got my good hand on the button of my jeans, but Zay’s hands were already busy, unbuttoning, unzipping, his fingers slipping down my panties.
Oh. Yes.
But my jeans weren’t loose enough for much more than
that. Zayvion pulled his hands away and caught at my belt loops. He knelt behind. As he lowered my jeans off my hips and down to my thighs, he followed with his lips, kissing the small of my back, the side of my hip, back of my thigh, behind my bare knees. Each wet, soft press of his mouth against my skin rolled a shock of heat through me, and left me aching for more.
He paused.
“Zay?” I breathed.
“Lift your foot.”
What? Oh, right. I lifted one foot, stepping out of my jeans, lifted the other. Zayvion pushed my pants across the floor, out of our way.
From his kneeling position, he caught the edge of my panties and tugged them down off my hips, away from the wet warmth of me.
He didn’t have to remind me to lift my feet this time.
I turned around and faced him.
Zayvion crouched, face level with my stomach, burning gold eyes, deep brown skin. The man radiated power, hunger, need. I caught my breath at the sight of him.
“I need you,” I said. “Please.” I dragged my good fingers though his hair, thick, soft black curls, wet with the steam of the shower. I wanted to pull him up to his feet so I could kiss him.
Wait. No kissing.
Well, none for me. Zayvion’s lips were just fine. He proved it by licking across my stomach. I moaned as he worked his way up.
I arched my head back, closed my eyes again as need thrummed through me.
He rested his hands on both sides of my hips. “Shower,” he said.
What? Oh, no way. Forget the shower.
“Allie.”
I opened my eyes. He was standing.
“I’ll be right here,” he said, low and sexy. “Waiting for you.” He let go of my hips, gave me a little push toward the shower. He leaned his butt against the sink and crossed his very nice arms over his very nice chest.
“I can’t,” I said in a voice that was all breath. “I can’t wait.”
He smiled a slow, dark smile. “It will be worth it.”
From that look, I guessed arguing with him would only extend my wait.
I got into the shower and let the warm water stroke my aching skin. I fumbled with the soap, but managed to wash myself left-handed without dropping anything or falling over. Then I washed and rinsed my hair, which was not as easy as it seemed. My right hand was bandaged, sore, and I didn’t really want to put soap on it. My left shoulder, however, hurt every time I raised my arm, so that pretty much counted out my left hand. Still, this wasn’t the first time I’d had to take care of my battered body. I managed.
I even turned off the water on my own.
I pulled back the curtain.
Zayvion still leaned against my sink. He held a towel in his hands.
I stepped out, took the towel, and wrapped it around me without bothering to dry off.
“I’m done.” I leaned full body against him, warm, naked, and slid my good hand down to the button of his jeans. I pressed my palm there, cradling his warmth. He grunted, and I grinned. Oh, I liked what I could do to this lovely, lovely man.
I thumbed the button through the button hole, letting my knuckles press against his stomach. He needed me, wanted me, that much was clear. But instead of unzipping his jeans, I stepped away.
I unlocked the door and didn’t care how cold it was in the hallway as I swayed off to my bedroom. I didn’t hear him behind me. Of course, I never heard him. But I could feel him. His need so strong, it was like a second pulse beneath my skin. I stopped next to the bed.
I pulled off my towel, let it drop to the floor, and heard the door close behind me.
I turned and watched as Zayvion unzipped his jeans and pulled them off. He stood naked before me—dark, intense. A condom appeared in his hand, and I was glad he remembered. I wasn’t sure I had any in the house.
I wanted to savor him, touch him slowly, taste his body, his soul. I held my arms open for him and he stalked over to me. We pressed together, folding into each other’s embrace. His hands slid down to the back of my thighs and he lifted me.
He lowered me gently onto the bed and held himself above me, his hungry gaze taking me in before he bent his head, his lips searching and finding my breast. He exhaled, something between a moan and a sigh, my name, I think.
He leaned to one side, supported by his elbow, and drew away just enough to trace something with his fingertip against my stomach. A glyph. Infinity, again.
“Zay?” I asked.
He just smiled and kissed the side of my throat, drawing magic up through me. The glyph against my skin warmed. Magic spread through me, hot, sweet, following the stroke of his tongue, circling the glyph on my stomach, growing stronger until I had to stretch to hold it all.
Oh. Oh yes.
Magic drew a second pleasure beneath my skin, settled like a weight in my belly. I wanted Zayvion. Wanted to open for him, wanted to wrap around him, feel him hard, powerful, inside me.
I kissed the side of his jaw softly, not wanting to split my lip on the rough stubble of his skin.
He stroked his palm down my body again until his fingers slipped to the warmth between my legs.
His fingertips were cool and drew a slow, delicious circle, then withdrew.
“Please,” I said.
And then there was no more talking. No more thinking. He was with me, in me, and my heartbeat was too loud. I inhaled, tasted mint, pine, threw my head back, moaned.
Magic licked fire across my nerves, aching, Zayvion pulling on magic. I reveled in the sensation of our bodies together, the stroke and texture of him inside me, stretching my senses, making me tingle, ache, burn, making me needful. I gasped, each breath short, shorter.
Heat, a deep, silken stroke took me, shaped me, shaped us, magic, every inch of my body, until I knew I could not be this any longer, could not be only myself. I wanted more. And magic could give it to me.
I called magic up through me and sent it, racing, wild, into Zayvion. He groaned. Shuddered. His eyes washed with gold.
A plunge of cool mint pressed me down. Like iron to lightning, he Grounded me, drinking down the magic that I poured into him. Magic rolled through me, through Zayvion, then rushed back through me again. I did not know where he began and I ended. Magic and need were one, and I was lost to it. Lost beneath his hands. I closed my eyes, arching, reaching, needing more. More.
Zayvion’s breathing became my breathing, his heartbeat my heartbeat. I wanted to wait, wanted him to beg for me to give him release, but I could not stop, too caught in our tempo, as we slipped up and up and up.
For a brief, bright moment, I was whole, alive, complete, hovering upon the crest of a wave that crashed through me, hot, rushing. I shuddered and trembled and clung to Zayvion, wrapped around him, not wanting to let him go.
Heat lapped over me, simmering into a languid warmth, releasing my breath and heartbeat slowly, and making every muscle in my body heavy.
Zayvion kissed the corner of my mouth, and I exhaled the taste of mint.
We rested there, sated, still embracing, unwilling to draw apart. Zayvion leaned his head against my shoulder—the good one—and I drew my fingertips lazily down the back of his head, tugged at his dark curls before sliding my fingers down the back of his neck.
I was exhausted. Tingling. I felt like I’d just taken a few hits of pure oxygen. Zayvion’s strong, wide body felt so right. This felt so right.
Why had I ever doubted him? Us?
He took a deep breath and kissed my shoulder, my collarbone. I moaned softly, pulsing gently to his touch, as he gently drew away from me and shifted to lie next to me.
I rolled onto my side, toward him, my back to the door. He wrapped his arms around me.
He stroked the curve of my cheek and temple with his thumb, calling magic to rise softly, then fall like mist away from his touch. “I never want to hurt you.”
It was a strange thing to say after making love.
Not knowing what else to do, I just nodded.
We lay there a while. I w
anted more, wanted to make love to him again. Instead, I drifted off to sleep.
A knock at the door woke me.
“I’m going out.” It was Nola. “There’s breakfast in the kitchen for both of you. I’ll be down at the courthouse, and later with Detective Stotts. I should be back around six.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks. Bye.” I clutched my blankets like they were going to fly away.
Zayvion wiped his hand over his face and grinned at me. “You didn’t forget she was here?”
And I knew I was blushing because I felt the heat of it spread across my chest and up my neck and face.
“No,” I lied. “Of course not.” I waited until I heard the front door close and then pushed the covers off. I felt the need to be dressed now. Just in case someone or something else decided to drop by. I found clean jeans, panties, bra, a tank, and green sweater. I managed the panties on my own. Then picked up my jeans.
“Gonna go that alone?” Zay asked.
The man lounged in my bed like a cat claiming a sun-beam, stretched out with only the corner of the blanket over his hips. I literally had to wait a second to get my breath back. It didn’t help when he smiled and stretched, flexing all the muscles down his hard stomach.
Maybe all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed with him.
“You offering to help?” I asked.
“Could. Might cost you.”
“So you’re going to blackmail me and leave me naked?”
Zayvion sat up and pulled to the edge of the bed. “You do see where it might be in my best interests to do so.”
“I can get into my own damn jeans,” I said.
“You didn’t ask what it would cost.”
“And I’m not going to.” I held the waistband, got one foot in, pulled the jeans up, reached my good hand across to get my other foot in, pulled the jeans up. Getting them over my hips was a little trickier and involved a lot of shim mying and wiggling.
I even zipped and buttoned the button. “Ha!” I said triumphantly.
“Very, very nice.” Zayvion lifted his gaze from my chest, a wicked grin on his face.
