Dark and Deadly: Eight Bad Boys of Paranormal Romance (68 page)

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 again. 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.

Okay. Good deal. Because that meant his body belonged to her, too.

Rook had rolled up on to his side, head propped on his hand. “How about I run out, get food, and bring it back here? Won’t be gone more than a half hour.”

“I could take a quick shower.” She needed the hot water on her, steaming out her pores.

“You’re just going to get sweaty later.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“We could shower together.”

The man was insatiable. If they kept at it, she wasn’t going to be able to walk. Not that she minded. She could stay nestled right here in his bed for the foreseeable future. It was a revelation that her body could crave this way, respond this way, feel so deliciously used and new at the same time.

“You get food,” she said. “I’ll get clean. I can take two showers in a day.” She was sure the second one would be more like a water sport anyway.

She really did need to get in better shape. Cardio first.

He rolled out of bed, and she was treated to a view of the best male ass ever. She was hoping for a little full frontal, but only got a side view as he pulled on his boxers and jeans. Still, those chiseled abs and defined chest were pure pleasure to look at.

Maybe he shouldn’t go, after all. Maybe that joint shower was a better idea.

She knelt up in the bed to proposition him when she noticed his brother Joshua was back. The child stood in the loft in roughed-up jeans and T-shirt, darkness hazing around him.

Really bad timing.

This time she wasn’t afraid, not really. It was her darksight that let her see Malcolm’s personal nightmare. He was haunted by his past. He just couldn’t let go of what had happened. It was his penance to carry his brother everywhere—part of why she was falling for him, that he cared so much. One day, Malcolm needed to find a way to put this behind him and look toward the future, but it was way too early in their relationship for her to suggest anything.

“Malcolm,” she murmured, leading him with her gaze to where Joshua watched and waited.

He turned. Cursed. Looked back at her. “Jordan, I’m sorry. I don’t know why he keeps coming back like this.”

“It’s okay. I get it. You loved him.”

“But he can’t keep showing up.”

“I’m sure you’re not the only one who carries around a nightmare. I just happen to be able to see it.” Her version of
It’s not you, it’s me.
“Maybe Darkside he’d be more frightening, but not here. He’ll disappear in a sec.” Like he had before, at the office.

She climbed out of bed, dragging the top sheet with her. She walked barefoot over to her man, went on tiptoe, kissed him. “Go get our food.” The boy would go with him. She was purposely ignoring him, and showing Malcolm that she could. “Do you have towels in the bathroom?”

“Just did laundry.” Worry haunted his eyes.

“Well, then.” She went on tiptoe again for another kiss. “Any idea when we’re going to hear from Coll or Maze?” She wanted an update on Vince Blackman, too. “Where’s Coll going to take her tonight, do you know?”

See, we can talk normally with the kid around.

She turned a little to gather up more sheet—and started.

Joshua now stood right beside them, preternaturally silent, uncomfortably close.

“Shit.” Malcolm cursed again, an arm going around her, stepping her back.

Okay, so maybe they couldn’t just ignore him.

“I’m going to have to go back home, aren’t I?” Malcolm’s voice was a rasp. “See my mom again. Face it.”

His mom was still alive, then. And yes, going back would be a start.

Malcolm looked at her. Looked long. Looked lost. “I don’t want him to ruin this.”

This
meaning
them
.

“He won’t,” she said. “Do what you need to do. I’m good. I’ll just be decorating my new place. Unless you want me with you.”

The darkness in his eyes lightened. “
Your
place?”

She was smiling when Joshua’s arm shot out, punching her in the stomach.

She doubled over, shocked both because it hurt and because he did in fact have the power to hurt her. His little fist was still embedded at her core.

Roughly, Malcolm pushed Joshua away from her, but the kid held on. As he stumbled back, he drew something of her with him. She crashed to her knees, the color in the room going negative, which on any other day she might think was cool.

Her mind darkened, waves crashing over her.

She knew she had the ability to push someone into sleep. She’d done it twice now.

Seemed pulling worked just as well.

One second she was falling, then the next, she was Darkside.

***

A nightmare could not hurt someone in the waking world. Rook had logged years upon years in Rêve—enough to know this was true.

Chimera agents could hurt or kill dreamers inside Rêve. Some Revelers could as well. But the fragments of dreams, even ones that looked human like his brother, could not physically harm anyone. Nightmares might drive a person insane, but they couldn’t
do
anything. It was Rêve 101—the reason it had been deemed safe.

Except, Joshua just had.

Jordan lay collapsed in Rook’s arms, body slack and unconscious. He tried to wake her, even shook her, but she would not stir.

The only thing to do was to go in after her. Tracking was what he was best at, anyway.

On his mobile he typed out a quick message to Coll.

I’ve been pursued by the nightmare of my brother Joshua. Hoped to make him go away by switching jobs. But the nightmare is real. REAL. He just drowned Jordan. I’m going after them.

He finished with the address of the warehouse, and then dropped himself out of the waking world and into the dreamwaters.

Of course, his dreams would manifest the worst day of his life—curbside, where he’d pushed his brother. The moment his mom came running out of the house, her outstretched arms, the sound of her scream. The driver of the car, Mrs. Kennedy, shaking her head and pointing at Malcolm.
He pushed him! He pushed him!
And his mom glancing over, her expression stricken, as she fell to her knees on the pavement.

He was still so sorry, but that word meant nothing compared to what he’d done.

Funny how the mind could recall details long forgotten. His shoelaces on one sneaker had been undone.
Un-Break My Heart
had been playing on Mrs. Kennedy’s car stereo. He hated that song so much.

Joshua himself wasn’t here. The spot where he usually lay was empty.

Malcolm didn’t have time for this. He’d lived it over and over again already.

He’d marked Jordan not two days past so that he might find her again in her dreams. He ignored the music tumbling from Mrs. Kennedy’s car, seeking a wisp—that’s all he needed—of Jordan’s brightness.

His darksight compounded his vision with a spectrum of light, multidimensional, yet with heat and texture. He sought through the dreamwaters until, yes, there she was.