Blacker than Black (30 page)

If that’s even possible.

He’s looking at me. His fingers trail down my neck, curl around my nape. His gaze focuses on my mouth. My lips are tender, bruised, but his kiss is gentle, soft as his whisper.

“Next time, let’s not do this half dressed.” His eyes flicker back and forth as he studies my face. Watching for a reaction. An edge of wariness. He doesn’t know where he stands now. Isn’t certain if he stepped across an invisible line.

Truth is, it wasn’t just a step. More of a bulldozer obliterating it. It’s not his fault, though. Damn it, I knew the possibility of him losing control—or having none—was high. Turns out I was right. I just didn’t know how right I was.

Shit. Now every time a
lyche
taps me, this will be the only thing I’m capable of thinking of. Dry-humping him. Yeah, because that was so attractive.

Actually, that’s by far the hottest thing anyone has ever done to me. That’s beside the point.

“Right,” I say finally, untangling my fingers from his hair and pushing myself up. “Preferably without my sister in the next room. And a house full of guests to entertain in . . . oh, thirty minutes, tops?”

There’s a wet spot south of my groin on my inner thigh. My leather pants are going to be ruined if I don’t get them cleaned. He relaxes his arms, but his hands are solid against my hips. I settle my weight down onto his thighs and sit back, studying his complexion. To say he looks better is a horrendous understatement.

Jhez is going to
know
what I did the moment she walks in here. It’s blatantly obvious the
lyche
gorged himself with more energy than a herd of cats could provide. And I’m the only person in the room. Reality slams into me, a bucket of freezing cold water on my warm, happy body.

He clamps his hands on my forearms. His skin is still slightly cool, but the strength in those fingers feels like steel as he uncrosses my arms and leans forward into me. There is a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he exhales slowly, inches away.

Our eyes meet, and whatever words were on the tip of his tongue dry up and die. I see it happen; the flicker of humor in his gaze bleeds away like water down a storm drain.

“There’s a bathroom in the sleeping quarters.” He motions with a jut of his jaw over his right shoulder. “You can clean up in there. I’ll return shortly with . . .” His gaze travels down my bared chest, over black leather, and he pauses, inhaling slowly and wetting his lips. “Something for you to wear,” he finishes, sounding hoarse.

Giving him a curt nod, I push off his lap and stand up. Post-coital euphoria makes people say strange things sometimes. Whatever he wanted to say, I’m glad he refrained. This is all temporary, I remind myself as I walk toward the door tucked into the back corner of his office. The emotional attachment will fade as the adrenaline filters out of my system, and the moment this—whatever it is—aural connection between us wears off, he’ll let me walk away, right? Encourage me to. Or Jhez will drag me out the door by the scruff of the neck, for my own good.

Knowing she’s here with me is the only thing that stays the freak-out session I feel building up inside my head.

“Black.”

My hand on the doorknob, I stop and turn to look back at him.

He’s still in the same spot on the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, chin resting on his shoulder. I look at his hair, now tangled beyond redemption. His shoulders, undeniably broad beneath the flattering cut of a now wrinkled steel gray silk shirt. His jaw, chin, mouth. Slightly flushed beneath his ivory complexion, the look of a healthy man still firmly in his prime.

As he always will be.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, but I can feel it. His attention doesn’t waver from my face. I lower my head slightly, close as I can come to nodding in acknowledgment, then escape through the door and use the weight of my body to push it shut.

Closing my eyes and burying my face in my hands doesn’t help. I feel my tangled shirt snag on the surface of the door as I slide down to sit on the floor. It pulls on my elbow, material crumpled halfway down my arms.

I just walked across the room half undressed.

I just made out with a
vampire
. Lyche.
What-the-fuck-ever. The drugs aren’t doing shit to reverse the twisted mess our auras have become. For all I know, the blocking agents are strengthening the bond by heightening the dependency.

Not to mention he all but admitted he’s no idea what this is, nor why the trading of energies between us triggered it in the first place.

Could this situation get any more fucked up?

“I don’t think it can,” I growl, smack my head back against the door, and then push myself back up off the floor. Force myself to move.

And of course, that’s the cue for the universe to prove me wrong.

I manage to keep my hair mostly dry in the shower. Even though Jhez might not ask, I know how her mind works. Perhaps she won’t put me through the wringer, though. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Or maybe I know my sister after this long.

Just as I’m whipping the large fluffy towel around my waist, someone raps on the door.

I try to stretch out and feel who it is with my aura. And then shake my head and wonder what the fuck I’m thinking.

“Black, it’s Monsieur Garthelle. I have some clothes for you.” He practically rips my shirt off after hauling me onto his lap, and now he plays Mister Politically Correct? What the hell?

Careful to tuck the edge of the towel in firmly along my hip, I walk over and crack the door open. Steam gusts out past him, and his nostrils flare as he inhales.

I snatch the clothes from his grip and snick the door shut. Really.

Five minutes later, I open the door again and step out, half my shirt buttons undone and the tails trailing out over the low-slung waistline of slacks that are slightly too large for me. At least the length is spot-on. Tripping over hems is definitely more than I would be willing to tolerate at this point.

I feel like a kid borrowing clothes from big brother’s closet, in a futile—laughable—attempt to impress his very first date. So not looking forward to the prospect of entertaining random, groping
lyche
.

Though I assume he went and changed, his attire is identical. Neater, of course. And his hair isn’t sporting that adorably tousled look anymore. Shame, that. It actually looked rather attractive on him.

No, I will
never
tell him that.

“Where’s Jhez?” I flop down onto the couch across from him, feeling more at ease in his presence than I have thus far. The intimacy is partly to blame, but there’s more to it than that. I tuck a foot up under myself and fumble through the contortions required to button the cuff of a dress shirt.

“She’s already en route to her first engagement for the evening.”

Why didn’t she wait for me to go with her? It’s my job, too, after all. And I would’ve preferred to have a chance to talk to her, even if she went without me. Did she notice anything different about Garthelle? I don’t want a “naughty little secret” shared only with a
lyche
. It reeks of blackmail and manipulation. Not exactly my idea of fun times.

I wonder if he’ll expect me to “entertain” as well, despite the fact that I’ve been at less than stellar levels. And just fed him. My gut says no. I run a thumb over the back of my hand and frown. That evening I first met him, fed him, my skin didn’t look this way. It was almost translucent, screaming at me, the first telltale sign that says,
Time to take a breather from the business for a week.

Despite the fact that I didn’t get that break, that instead I’ve been pushing to the limits of my aural endurance, my skin is a healthier shade than it’s been in some time.

Odd. Frightening, too. Because I don’t know why, and in this business the unknowns will kill you in a heartbeat.

I glance up at Garthelle, trying to read his expression. There aren’t any files on the table between us. My skin tingles, everywhere. All at once. I blink and shudder, and the sensation is gone, just like that. Are the drugs wearing off, perhaps? Gaia, I hope so. I dart another glance at him.

He’s still watching me. I shift, uncomfortable. Tuck my other leg up onto the couch, settling into a lotus position. The residual intimacy feels awkward. “Are we going to just sit here all night?”

He blinks. “Would you like a drink? Something to eat, perhaps?”

I cant my head to the side, trying to get a slightly altered perspective of him. “I had the impression you wanted me to work this evening.”

He curls one corner of his mouth up, the twitching birth of a smile. “You’ve done more than enough already, I think.”

I frown, brow furrowing, before I even think to control the reaction. “You expect my sister to pull the full load tonight, entertaining those . . .” I wave my hand toward the corridor. “Guests of yours.”

Alone. A single solo interview is one thing. This is different, and I would feel more comfortable with the arrangement if I were there too. Then again, to say the whole situation is new for us would be an understatement.

“I’m inclined to defer to her assessment that you’re not recovered enough to perform in that capacity.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and the intensity of his gaze draws mine. “This connection between our auras makes me vulnerable. Given recent developments, I’m unwilling to trust most of the
lyche
still present.” He pauses, lips pursing into a line of tension. “So, no. I’m not willing to share you . . . in the same manner I do your sister.”

The lag in that last sentence feels deliberate, the qualifier regarding my twin tacked on as an afterthought. I try to read between the lines and hear what he’s really saying, but my stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly.

I plaster a wide grin on my face. “Yes, food sounds agreeable.” I stare at the back of my hand, letting the forced smile slide away. Something weird is happening here. What isn’t he telling me? He pushes up from the couch and walks off to his desk, picks up the phone.

I can recall every moment of him feeding from me. He tapped deep, drew hard. Why don’t I feel dizzy, weak, like I usually would? Like I did the first time? More importantly, where’s the disorientation and memory loss? The more you know, the more you know you don’t know. Right now, I’m feeling downright ignorant.

“You and I need to talk, Leonard.” My words come out barely above a whisper. All the same, the cadence of his voice on the phone falters momentarily. I know he heard me. I run my thumb across the back of my hand again, wondering why my veins aren’t in stark relief. Blue blood contrasting against pale, translucent skin. The trademark of a heavy tapping. It’s not there.

He falls silent. The click of the phone back into its cradle is loud. He’s standing beside me, towering over me, hands slid into the pockets of his slacks in a stance that strives for casual. Instead, his close proximity vibrates with tension and uncertainty.

Good. Makes two of us. The unknown is a truly frightening thing.

“What is it you want to talk about?” His voice is low and soft. Why does it feel like he’s attempting to soothe my nerves? For that matter, why’s he so damned calm?

I lift a hand and rub at the tender spot above my clavicle where his teeth dug in a little too firmly. Didn’t break the skin, but I’m going to have a bruise. And it won’t look anything like a hickey, either.

“Do you remember that evening?” I ask, trying to frame my problem. I hurry on before he gets a chance to answer, rushing my words when I feel him shift and draw a breath. “I don’t recall much. Except before and . . . standing outside your building, after. One thing I do remember, though, is looking at my hand in the fluorescent lights. Thinking I needed to take a break for a bit, because my veins were standing out. My skin—” I cut off abruptly, feeling uncertain.

How much should I really tell him? How much does he already know, being what he is? “Anyways, just now was . . . different.” Understatement. “I mean, I recall everything.” There’s a flood of heat crawling up my neck, headed inexorably for my face. Damn it, I haven’t blushed in forever. What’s wrong with me? The words stumble from my lips in a headlong rush, tripping over each other. “When, uh,
lyche
tap me, the experience is usually a blur. A vague memory, with snippets of clarity at best. And any other time, given the past week and how . . . deep you went.” Blush in full force now. My ears feel like they’re on fire. I duck my head, and a veil of black hair slides between me and him, shrouding my face from view. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to take a slow breath. “I should be showing some side effects. And I’m not.”

“Sounds like you’re worrying about nothing.”

I frown and glance up at him, brushing my hair behind my ears impatiently. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

His brows arch up his forehead. “You’re serious.” He steps closer and eases onto the edge of the coffee table, facing me. “Do you mind explaining to me why, precisely, you’re stressed over the fact that I was gentler and more considerate than johns you pick up on the street?”