Dark and Deadly: Eight Bad Boys of Paranormal Romance

by Ashley Jennifer

  Nevertheless, up ahead, through passing cars and the corner of an obscuring building, she got the sense of a blurry person. It was as if he’d been drawn in charcoal and pastels, but the heel of the artist’s hand had accidentally smudged him.

  Had to be that guy. “So I just dunk him?”

  Beside her, Rook exhaled. “Lightly.”

  Heart hammering, she mentally reached out—the smudged person came alert, stood—but before he could do anything, she pushed.

  He collapsed backward, sucked out of sight. Fell out of the waking world.

  Rook was already pulling into traffic, but once down the one-way street, he turned up the next block, doubling back to head away from her apartment building.

  “Good job, sweetheart.”

  She’d been trying to take today’s rapid shifts in stride. It was getting more difficult.

  “Sorry we won’t be able to pick up your things,” Rook said. “But don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.”

  Oh, so he was going to take her shopping?

  “You have your pick of my T-shirts to sleep in.”

  No such luck.

  ***

  “Not even Coll knows where I live,” Rook told her as he unlocked the door with its peeling paint in the old factory. Worn, narrow stairs led up to the second floor.

  Following him, she moved more slowly, pale, eyes wide, taking in where he lived. He knew he had beer in the fridge, but she looked like she could use a glass of orange juice or something. Low blood sugar.

  “It’s not much.” He unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. “But it’s safe. No one will come here.”

  His place made up the entire second floor. It was utilitarian at best, with airy, high ceilings, but zero renovation to make it cool or comfortable. He had basic furniture in scarred black leather. A good bed, though he fell asleep just as often in his desk chair.

  It was only now, though, that he noticed the dust bunnies cartwheeling across the floor from the draft from the door. “I’m planning to fix it up.”

  She was gingerly stepping over his free weights. “You work out a lot?”

  “Things like strength, fitness, and general health transfer into Rêve if they’re true in real life. Most Chimera stay in decent shape so that they aren’t tempted to spend energy and concentration trying to look strong.”

  “All the Rêve ads say you can be anything you want.” She was looking around, taking in the stained walls, the exposed pipes where the kitchen sink was, and the cheap-ass folding table that served as his counter.

  He didn’t know how to live differently. He’d saved all his money, invested it, but he still hadn’t figured out what to spend it on. He didn’t know how to do to his place what she’d done to hers.

  “A weak person will still flinch,” he said. “A scared person will lose the fight. You can’t face a serial killer while worrying if you’re tough enough.”

  She threw him a weak smile. “Does that mean I have to start working out?”

  “I could help you,” he said. “If you wanted.”

  “Not scared I’d drown you?”

  “Jordan, I know my way around Darkside. I’ve been deeper than most. You don’t scare me.”

  “I scare me. What am I going to do now? Where do I go?”

  He almost offered to let her crash here, but it was too raw for someone pretty like her. It reminded him of how different they were. “Coll will have loads of options. You can live a normal life, just carefully. You’ll need a good security system.”

  She cast her gaze around again. “FYI, this isn’t a normal life.”

  “Don’t use me as an example.” His place was a decade short of the kind of warehouses he’d crashed in on the streets. In fact, this was exactly the kind of building he’d lived in after running away from home. Eleven years, and he was in the same spot: alone, living cold, using Rêve to get away from his life.

  “Chimera will give you whatever you want to set yourself up.”

  “So I’m starting over?”

  “It won’t be like this, I promise. This is just me and my shit. You will have a good life. Good pay. Hours can be weird, but you get used to that.”

  “I was in art school, you know, before I had to earn a real paycheck to provide for Maisie. Got a job as a receptionist, took business classes at night, worked my way up into marketing.”

  See, there. “You could paint again.”

  “I can’t go back to my apartment, right?”

  “Not for a while.” He’d see what he could do to get her stuff.

  She dropped her purse on his messy desk. “I think I’ll take over yours.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your apartment. I want it,” she said. “The light is perfect.”

  He looked around at his empty shithole.

  “You can stay, if you want. Or move,” she said, shrugging. “But if this is okay for a Chimera, then I’ll take it.”

  “You want my place?”

  She smiled that too-bright, excited smile, the one only Maisie got out of her. “Yeah. I love it. And you obviously don’t care about it.”

  “You love my place?”

  “My place.” She seemed to get a bright idea, because she dived into her purse and pulled out the kitty statue and one of her picture frames. Removed an old pizza box from his desk, put her things in its spot. “Voila.”

  He scratched his head. “Uh. This loft is already occupado.”

  Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The light was kind of…glowy.

  “It’s occupied by me now. Betcha ten bucks Mr. Coll will agree with me. It’s the condition of my joining. I get to paint! And work in my sleep. Who’d complain about that?”

  “The neighborhood’s not so good.”

  “Yeah, but I can drown whoever messes with me. You’ll have to move the bed, though. That’s where my easel is going.”

  “That’s the best spot.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You think you can just take over?” Pushy much?

  “Not take over. Start over. Shit happens. Happened today for me. What you have to do is start over. No use complaining or crying or huddling in a ball waiting for someone to save the day.” He heard a note of old pain in her voice. “I started over once before, six years ago when my mom died. Maze and I had to live in a tiny studio with a roach problem for two years. This is straight out of a magazine! The before picture of course, but God, wait for the after!”

  Still looked like a shithole to him.

  “Do you own it? I’ll rent it from you.”

  He owned the building, had considered opening a bike shop downstairs. But, come on, he’d met her a couple of days ago. They weren’t moving in together. He wasn’t that kind of man. He lived alone. He’d always lived alone. Clearly, she was the move-in kind of woman.

  “I don’t know if we can both live here,” he said. The promise of frequent sex was tempting, but all the other stuff that women did…or were rumored to do, since he had no experience living with them personally? No. “I like you and all…”

  “No problem. And no hard feelings. Since you were instrumental in breaking up my old life, you can stay at my old place until you find another.”

  That wasn’t what he meant.

  She’d moved to one of the long, wide windows and was fiddling with the latch. “Maze will help me clean and paint. Oh! She can live here, too.”

  “No, she can’t.”

  Jordan smiled over her shoulder. “Mr. Coll will arbitrate.”

  Coll would do nothing. “It’s my place, woman!”

  Her smile grew.

  The sick feeling he’d had upon entering had been replaced with bewildered outrage. The sudden return of the cold desperation that had clutched at him during those years he was on his own had dissipated; he was warmer now.

  He almost felt good.

  Standing in his own goddamn place, he looked around again, disoriented. Didn’t see any of the ratholes he used to live in any
more. It was full of light.

  But a little paint wouldn’t hurt. On top of some minor construction.

  And she wasn’t likely to bother him if she was doing art. Not to mention the other obvious perks of having her beautiful body within reach. The girl had nowhere else to go, unless Coll got her a room somewhere, and that would just mean that Rook would have to go there to watch over her until she was truly settled.

  He approached and put his hands at the flare of her hips. “How about you stay here, and we just see how it goes?”

  “I stay here,” she repeated. “Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?”

  No. He didn’t think it was, but because she felt so right in his grip, he wasn’t about to argue.

  She seemed to catch his train of thought. “I can’t sleep with you until we’ve shared a meal.” She turned in his hands to face him and made a worried, sorry expression, upper teeth scoring her bottom lip. “It’s a Rule thing I have so I don’t get myself in trouble.”

  Damn if he didn’t break a sweat.

  Rule thing. Okay. His fridge was empty, he knew that much. There was a drugstore on the corner, but there was nothing there he could reasonably call a meal.

  Warm laughter bubbled up from inside her. “The look on your face.”

  “I’ve got to touch you,” he confessed. Touch was just the beginning, the most polite word he had for what he wanted to do to her.

  “I said I couldn’t sleep with you, not have sex.” That bright smile. “We can have sex whenever.”

  Smartass.

  “Food later. Promise.” They were going to need their sleep when they were done.

  His vision blurred a little as his hands slid up under her shirt to find warm, soft skin. Again, that strange ache overcame him, a need born of long deprivation—and it wasn’t necessarily for sex.

  Something about her… What was it about her...?

  He didn’t know and couldn’t care with the rush and pound of heat burning out all coherent thought. It was her doing, her hands under his shirt, light fingertips fluttering up his stomach, thumb brushing the ridge between his pecs. She arched in the grip of his palms, and trembled too, breath short and fast under his ear.

  “Nervous?” he murmured against her temple, to tease her.

  “Just ignore the shakes. I’m good. This happens to me all the time.”

  “All the time?” He dipped his head to kiss, brushed his mouth against her lips.

  “Oh yeah. Sex with strange men in the middle of the workday. People after me. You bet.”

  He dipped again, this time to pick her up. One of her shoes clattered to the floor. She toed off the other one.

  “Good,” he said. “We’ll put that experience to use. You can be on top.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jordan’s shakes only got stronger.

  The button on her nice pants popped and went pinging on the floor. He had no respect for the longevity of her clothes. No respect at all. She was on top, straddling his lap, but he was sitting up, too, peeling off her layers with hands so hot she thought they’d brand her. She didn’t care if they did. She barely managed to get his shirt over his head, and then gulped at the raw beauty of what had to be the most finely tuned male body she’d had the privilege to touch.

  Every inch was ridged with taut muscle, and the way it moved under his skin—holy hell—she was in trouble. He was as dangerous in the waking world as he was in dreams.

  Truth was, it’d been a few months—like, twelve—since she’d been with anyone. The guys she’d dated in the meantime had been easy to shrug off for one reason or another. She wasn’t going to go to bed with anybody who was just cute or funny—he had to be boyfriend material at least.

  Malcolm Rook defied categorization.

  He made her clothes feel hot and tight, her heart and breath go out of sync, and her awareness shift to the ache high up between her thighs. She was liquid with want, and clumsy going about satisfying it, as if she hadn’t known her own body could feel like this. Actually, she hadn’t. This was the stuff of novels with—yeah—men like him on the cover.

  “You’re right about the light,” he said, stroking the column of her neck down to her cleavage. “Your skin’s like rose gold. Perfect. “

  “We should keep the bed here.” Where the light would serve her better than shining on her paintings.

  He chuckled as he managed the clasp of her bra. She felt the release of her breasts as the lace was pulled and thrown away, then a higher, harsher lift as his mouth and hand took over its job.

  For the love of—

  The rough scrape of his teeth on her nipple blinded her. She had only his shoulders to grab, his back to score, since his mouth was busy. She had no way to give back except to rock her hips against his erection, which she was sure was perfect like the rest of him.

  It was desperately wrong and sad that they both still wore pants. He should be locked into her already, deep, like a lightning rod directing all the energy buzzing around them to one primal connection. She didn’t care if she died from the shocks. The lack was so strong that she tightened her arms around him and leaned to the side to bring him down.

  He cooperated and ended up on top, dragging the pants and panties from her hips, again with no regard for her ever wearing them again. She used her feet to peel his jeans down his legs. His boxers got caught on the huge thing reaching toward her, so he had to unhook and discard those himself. He grabbed a foil packet from his wallet.

  When he settled on top of her, she was trembling hard again.

  “So, um—” She had to arch against him; her body demanded it. His weight, the heat of his skin on her belly, her breasts, her leg twining around his as if it had a mind of its own—all of it was exquisite beyond anything she had ever known. She’d dreamed about feeling like this, yes, and he had a way of making dreams and life merge together.

  “Yeah?” He’d braced one arm above her, arm muscle flexing. God, he had great shoulders. His other hand stroked around her waist to her ass, reached a secret spot just inside her thigh and adjusted her hips so that—

  “Malcolm?” She wanted him so badly she hurt.

  The long slow slide of his thrust brought both her knees up and open to take him as deeply as she could. Yes, this was how she wanted to die. Right here. Like this. A dark tingle rushed through her blood and all the shakes ceased, her mind going dark. She became both tight and boneless. She was insensible to the world around her, yet knew exactly what she wanted.

  Locking her ankles at his hips and pinned under his weight, she gave herself up to the waves of the storm. If they drowned, it would be together, a shattered vessel on the sea, a collision of longing and desire.

  ***

  She was soft and limp beneath him, pink and pale and pretty, but he could still feel the tremors at her core where he was still embedded within her.

  “You were supposed to be on top,” he growled, nuzzling her.

  She patted his shoulder, minimal movement, and said sleepily, “Next time.”

  He pushed up with his arms on both sides of her head to admire his catch. The light played across her skin. Her dark hair curled and spread in abandon. Her breasts were full and rosy, rising gently and falling with each contented breath. She was a spoiled goddess and he was utterly smitten with her.

  This was serious. She was becoming something to him so quickly, like a second nature he hadn’t known existed.

  Yeah, she could live here. She sure as hell wasn’t living anywhere else.

  She was his. He was keeping her. He’d waited so long to feel like this. Easy. Happy. Relaxed.

  He wanted more Jordan.

  Dragging her up—she pouted—he simultaneously rolled under her, onto his back. She seemed grumpy to be moved, but she braced her knees on either side of him, a light of awareness and power sparking in her eyes.

  “Is this what you wanted?” A hint of her smirk twitched at her mouth.

  Not quite. Hands to her waist, he lifted a
gain. Positioned more carefully. Deep, deep, to darkest heaven. “There.”

  She wasn’t shaking anymore. There was no nervousness left as she rolled her hips, tested the motion. He groaned mercy at the tight, hot sensation gathering around his cock. His hands went to her breasts, couldn’t stop touching them. She let her head drop back as she rode him. Over the drumbeat of his pulse, their ragged breaths broke the quiet of the loft.

  He thumbed her clit when the sheen of sweat dampened her chest, drops skating down the valley between her breasts, and she cried out and came, quivering on his shaft above him. The tight lock she had on him made him come, too. He ground himself deep inside, gripping her hips, until the last spasm faded.

  He had to help her down next to him on the bed, whispering, “Gimme one minute, and we’ll go again.”

  Not done, not nearly.

  “I really do need to start working out,” she said, drawing his arm around her so that her ass tucked close to his crotch, bodies nestled like spoons.

  He already knew how he wanted her next. The evidence was rising, seeking already.

  It’d never been like this. Not with anyone.

  In his arms, she giggled. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You have no idea.”

  She wiggled. “Pretty sure I do.”

  That wiggle was a flirt and she knew it.

  No, they weren’t done. Not yet. Not ever.

  ***

  Jordan tapped on Rook’s very nice shoulder. “You promised me food.”

  The sun was on the other side of the building now. They’d missed lunch for sure. It might not be dinnertime yet, but clearly all norms for the day had been discarded.

  Except for the growling in her belly, she didn’t mind at all.

  She was sore in the best way possible. Sensitive and buzzing and aware.

  And she was craving something…

  “I want a hamburger.” She’d earned it. He had, too. Yes, he had definitely done his share, and then some. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  He’d given her fair warning. If she planned on living here, she’d be spending a lot of time dressed in loft light and little else.