by Rachel Caine
“She’s all right,” Bryn said. “Sleeping.”
“I suppose we all should be,” he said again. But he didn’t go in. He just kept watching her.
She walked to her door, passed it, and kept moving toward him.
He stepped back to let her inside, and for the first second they just…looked at each other. Then Bryn reached over, swung the door shut firmly, and said, “You look tired.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She pulled in a deep breath. “And…no. Not particularly. I thought maybe we could…continue what we started earlier tonight. In your office.”
He didn’t speak, but the incendiary look in his eyes answered for him. She reached out and drew her fingers gently down the exposed skin of his chest until she hit cloth and button, and began to undo the rest.
It was as if she’d unlatched a cage, and the tiger leaped out. Her reactions were by no means slow—faster, if anything, with the addition of the helpful nanites—but she wasn’t prepared when he lunged forward and pushed her against the door, then put his hands on either side of her head. He got kissing-close…but their lips didn’t meet. “I want this,” he said, and there was a rich, focused intensity in the words that made her shiver. “I want this very, very badly, Bryn. So don’t start this if you don’t. Just tell me no, and I’ll back off. You can go. And everything can be as it was yesterday.”
It was as much a warning as an invitation, she thought. And there was definitely something different about him now; Patrick was such a careful, controlled man, and seeing him trembling on the edge of letting go was like standing in front of an oncoming hurricane.
It was exhilarating and frightening.
“I need to know something first,” she said. “Don’t you care?”
“Care about what?” He took in a deep breath, as if he was savoring the smell of her skin.
“About me being dead.” There, she’d said it, and it surprised him, but only a little.
And it didn’t drive him away as she’d expected it would.
“You’re not dead, Bryn.”
“I’m not alive, either. I’m…stuck.”
“Oh, you’re alive,” he said. “Your heart beats. Your skin’s warm. You feel things.” For proof of that, he touched a fingertip to the notch of her breastbone and traced the hard outline of it, the hollows around it. “In no way do I think of you as dead.”
“I need a shot to stay this way.”
“And I need to eat and drink and sleep. Even then, every day I come a little closer to the end of my life. And you don’t. Which of us is dying, exactly?”
“You saw me,” she said. “You saw me with a bag over my head. I was dead. How can you—”
He put that single finger over her lips, stilling them. “That’s not what I remember,” he said. “I remember you turning on the water.” She blinked, because that made no sense, no matter how she ran it through her head; her confusion must have shown, because he smiled. “When you woke up in the room at Pharmadene, and I left you there to think about things, what did you do?”
“I—”
“You went to the bathroom and turned on the tap, and put a cup in place to catch the drops. You timed the drops to pulse beats. You made a water clock so you could keep track of the time,” he said. “It was brilliant. You’d been murdered. Revived. I’d just told you I might let you rot. And that’s what you did. You took control of your own existence in the only way you could.”
“I really don’t understand why that’s a turn-on, Patrick.”
“I like women who take control,” he said, and his lips came close again, but didn’t touch. “I also like women who know when to give it up. Do you trust me?”
Did she? Did she really? Suddenly, there were so many sensations and emotions in her body that she couldn’t sort anything out. It was all just…overwhelming.
“Say something,” he said. It came out as a bare, raw whisper.
“Yes,” she said. Just that.
It was more than enough.
He kissed her with so much force behind it, she felt a burning instant of panic, but then the hurricane hit, blowing through her defenses and barriers, and she met him at least halfway. His hands yanked the hem of her knit shirt up and fitted around the bare skin of her waist, and oh, the burning brand of them—she felt as if they’d left scorch marks. She finished loosening his shirt, but he was too busy to strip it away—busy pulling hers up, baring the black satin of her bra cups. She didn’t want to stop touching him, not for an instant, but she had to lift her arms. The soft knit was a cool counterpoint as it slid away, and then his big hands circled her wrists and held her arms pinned above her head as his lips came back to hers. She let out a trembling breath that was lost in the heat of his mouth, and the silky invasion of his tongue as it teased hers.
When he let her arms go again, he did it slowly, sliding his fingers all the way down the smooth, taut skin to her shoulders. As she reached for him again, he put his hands around her waist, pulled her forward, and spun her around with dizzying speed to face the door. She gasped and slapped both hands flat on the surface, about to push off, but he was close against her, heat like a bonfire at her back. Those suddenly gentle fingers traveled up her arms again, and he whispered in her ear, “Now do you trust me?”
In that flickering second, she wasn’t sure. He was so strong, so fast, so…decisive. Like he’d been out there at the marina, facing Fast Freddy and calculating the odds of killing his best friend. Could a person who could do that be trusted, really?
“No,” she said, and felt him go intensely still for a second before she said, “But I want to trust you. So help me.”
He sighed, breath stirring the hair on the back of her neck; it made her shiver in delicious dread. “I’ll work on it,” he promised, and settled a sensual, warm kiss where the gooseflesh had formed. She felt a faint pressure on the bra catch, and then it loosened; the straps slid off her shoulders and down her arms. “Do you want me to stop?”
God, no. A thousand times no, her whole body shrieked in protest at the idea. “Would you? If I said yes?” His fingers stroked down her back, and that was not helping her keep focused on words.
She almost missed the very soft answer. “With a great deal of effort. Of course.”
Bryn pulled in a shaking breath. There was something so…revealing about that answer, on all levels. It spoke to the depths of what he was feeling, and to the man he was.
And more important, she believed him.
She licked her lips and tasted the memory of his kiss. “Do you want me to stay like this?”
“For now.” His whisper this time was dark, deep, and as silky as the touch of his skin on hers. She moved her head to the side as his mouth touched her neck—a lick, and gentle suction, then moving up. She made an inarticulate sound as he sucked her earlobe, teeth clicking on the gold stud earring, and then his warm tongue traced the outer curve of her ear and left her shuddering with bizarre pleasure. She’d never liked that, but somehow, the way he did it…
And then his hands moved up her sides, and he reached under her loosened bra to cup her breasts. When his fingers crossed the aching surface of her nipples, she felt them swell under his touch, every slow caress harder, more demanding, just trembling on the edge of pain but tipping into pleasure.
She wanted him, with a feverish, vivid intensity that shocked her. She hadn’t ever wanted anything so badly. It frightened her, and delighted her at the same time.
He was expert at stripping more than her defenses. Her belt went next, and then her pants. He kept her panties on for the moment, but they were hardly a barrier to the relentless progress of his hands, and as they slid beneath the elastic, she arched against his chest in a silent explosion of pleasure. The contrast of the hard, cool wood against her bared breasts, his heat at her back, those clever hands exploring her boundaries, drove the breath out of her in hot waves. Not quite an orgasm, not yet, but he was toying with her, reading her fre
quency.
Patrick might be out of control, she thought in a rare lucid moment, but he was also more in control than she could have imagined. He was also deeply aroused; she could feel that in the pressure of his body against hers, and she teased him with hers, encouraging him without words spoken to go farther, deeper, harder.
It seemed to take hours before he finally let her panties slip away. His pants and underwear followed, and she’d almost forgotten how to interpret words when he put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Tell me you want this, Bryn.”
“God,” she said, and rested her cheek against the cooling wood of the door. She was shaking all over, flying apart with need. “Yes. Please. I do.”
He slipped inside her with a sudden, breathtaking thrust, pressing her against the solid surface, and she let out a low cry of pure, animal pleasure.
And then more, and more, and more, until the world shattered around them in a white-hot fury.
Chapter 6
Somehow, they found the bed afterward—a giant Victorian thing, tall and forbidding, but full of luxurious layers of sheets and blankets that felt soothing and soft against Bryn’s hypersensitive skin. She rolled on her side and stared at him; McCallister, like her, looked flushed, and his skin glistened with sweat. There was a vagueness in his eyes that she couldn’t recall ever seeing before. It looked like peace. For this moment, at least, he wasn’t on guard.
“I’m sorry,” he said, which startled her into a blink. “I’m usually—not that—”
“Don’t tell me that,” she said, and smiled. “Because it was fantastic.”
“In that case, forget what I said. I am always like that.” But he was looking at her with a trace of…something odd. “I imagined the first time to be slow and romantic, face-to-face. Not…out of control and up against my bedroom door.”
“Something in you wanted it that way. And trust me, something in me wanted it, too. I think we’ve been thinking about this for way too long.” Bryn reached out and traced a slow, lazy pattern on his chest. “You might have noticed that.”
“I might have.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it, and the softness of his lips made her ache inside, again. Impossible that she could want more just now, but…there it was.
“I hope—” She bit her lip on a sudden, strange impulse to laugh, and felt color pinking her cheeks. “I hope that wasn’t as loud outside the room as it seemed like it was in here.”
“You’re worried about your sister?”
Annie. God, she hadn’t thought of Annie at all, honestly, and that was mortifying. “I was thinking about Liam. Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”
“A little scandal would do him a world of good,” Patrick said. “And don’t worry, he wouldn’t have heard unless he was just outside. I’m sure he’d be polite enough to walk away, in that case. Or at least be discreet about it.”
“Thank God. Uh…does he have to be discreet often?”
Patrick’s warm, slow smile sparked more heat. “Not as often as all that. Are we into the confessions portion of the evening?”
“Depends on how much you have to confess. Judging from how well that just went, I’m guessing it might be a long story.”
He didn’t affirm or deny it, just kept smiling. She gave him an irritated shove on the shoulder, but that got her nothing except her wrist captured in his hand…and then he pulled her closer, and said, “If you don’t mind me saying so, you seemed like a woman who hadn’t been properly satisfied in a long time. From the…intensity.”
Had she been blushing before? Because it felt like a bonfire in her face now. “Well, you know. It’s been a while.”
“And if I had to guess, I’d say you’ve not had very good experiences. Which is a real pity, because you deserve them.” He kissed her, slow and warm and languorous, and she was torn between the hot magic of his mouth and the teasing sensation of her hard nipples brushing against his chest. And his hand, leaving her wrist to slide slowly down her waist and hip. “So. In the morning, are we just friends?”
She pulled back, staring at him. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I don’t know. I don’t know if you want this to be…something else, or just the pleasant thing it is. You live here, Bryn. I don’t want you uncomfortable. Or feeling you owe me anything.”
“You’ve just given me the best orgasms of my life,” she said. “I do owe you.”
“I think that was more of an in-kind trade, not a gift.”
“Do you want it to be…something else?”
He regarded her with a sudden, sharp focus. “The first day I met you, I thought you were complicated and dangerous. No matter how far I go with you, it seems there’s more to find. So yes. I’d like it to be more, but I can’t be the only one to think so or this won’t work. It’ll end badly.” He said that with so much conviction she was sure it had ended badly for him before. “I’m not rushing you. Tonight is…tonight. And tomorrow you can be my platonic friend, my friend with benefits, or my lover, but they’re very different things.”
“Friends with benefits? Somehow, I never pegged you as one of those guys.”
“I’m just saying that if you don’t want any emotional commitments, I’m not sure I can totally oblige you, but I’d try very, very hard.” He looked wickedly watchful, and she didn’t miss the double entendre or the direction his hand had taken, stroking gently at the curve of her hip. “Would you like me to try?”
“Maybe, if you’re going to try very hard,” she said, and closed her eyes on a sigh as his hand moved down. “Oh. Oh.”
He did a great deal more than try, and if this was what being friends with benefits meant, she decided that she could settle for it, gladly, at least for a while. There was something dark and unromantic about the whole thing, but the benefits were…amazing.
After, though…after the second time, which was so different in tone from the first, but no less breathtaking, she lay curled in his arms, filled to bursting with a kind of peace she’d never really felt before. Her mind was still and quiet—no regrets, no criticisms, no apologies. There was just a simple comfort to it, a trust she couldn’t quite wrap her head around because she had never expected to feel this, not for Patrick, not for anyone.
Especially not after she’d died.
She dropped off into a childlike, trusting sleep, and the last conscious thought she had was, He is just not the kind of man you sleep with and stay just friends.
Bryn had no idea how long it was between when she’d slid off into sleep, relaxed and comfortable, and when she woke, but it was a sharp, focused sort of waking—not just the normal thing of rousing when a strange bed partner moves, but a tense, tingling sense of purely instinctive alarm.
It was because of the way she’d felt Patrick react. It wasn’t a slow, sleepy gesture, it was something that spoke of alerts and danger, and though he didn’t stir again, she knew he was completely awake and alert.
And so was she.
There was a crack of dim light coming through the door. The windows showed no signs of dawn; it was, according to the digital clock on the nightstand, just about four in the morning.
Bryn heard a very faint creak of wood, and felt Patrick’s hand press lightly in warning, and then move slowly off her skin without stirring the covers. His breathing remained deep and regular, and she had to force herself to try to mimic it. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong here.…They both felt it.
And then it was too late to try to think, or plan. She only had time to react.
A light blazed on right in Bryn’s face, halogen-bright, and she sensed the attacker lunging at her. Something sharp flashed in the light. Bryn didn’t stop to think, just moved forward, blocked what was coming down at them, then met the attacker’s rush with one of her own. The flashlight went flying in a spiraling arc that showed color, wood, a confusing whirl of shadows.…
She grabbed the intruder more by luck than skill, and held both his arms away from her body as she
used her momentum to drive him backward into a waist-high heavy table. She expected it to be Fast Freddy Watson, her nightmare bogeyman, or, possibly worse, Jonathan Mercer.…
But it wasn’t a him at all. The cry was feminine, and in the moonlight Bryn saw a long, sharp kitchen knife fall to the carpet. There was bright blood staining the first inch. From down the hall she heard dogs sounding alarms, led by Mr. French’s deep, ferocious barks, and ten seconds later, as she fought to hold on, the door of the room banged back and the lights went on.
Bryn was grappling with her sister.
Annie struggled wildly, screaming now; her hair whipped around her distorted face as she tried to break Bryn’s grip. She didn’t look…sane.
No, no, no…This was what they’d feared, what she’d dreaded, but Annie had seemed so much better. And she’d responded to the Protocol cancellations.…
“Out of the way!” shouted a voice from behind—Joe Fideli, still fully dressed, who instantly grabbed hold as Bryn let go and backed away. He easily held Annalie and forced her down on the floor, where he put a knee on her chest to pin her as he administered a shot. It took only a few seconds, and then she went out, still as…
Still as a corpse.
He’d killed her. Anesthesia for the Revived.
Joe didn’t look up. “Get dressed, Bryn.”
She realized, with a burst of shock, that she’d been fighting naked and hadn’t even realized it. She found her shirt and pants and dragged them on without bothering with underthings, and then, belatedly, realized that there was one participant absent from the drama going on in the room.
Patrick was still in bed. He was alive, and he was breathing, but he had his hand clamped tightly over his slashed arm.
The bedding was a mess of fresh blood.
“Pat!” Training kicked in, and Bryn forced herself to slow down, push feelings aside. “Did she get the artery?”
“Yes,” he said. “Look after her. I’m fine.”
