Insatiable Craving: 2 (Insatiable Nights) (12 page)

Perhaps Razor was better off leaving Ginny alone, but he doubted his most valiant effort would produce success. The choice to pursue whatever had brewed between them seemed a long time in the making—much longer than just today. Rather, everything that had occurred today felt like the natural result of weeks of shy glances and fervent fantasies. Even Aria had conceded she was at fault for shoving them together in the first place. Razor still didn’t know what Ginny had been looking for when she showed up at the club this morning, but he couldn’t begrudge what he’d found in the few hours they’d known each other, no matter the mind fuck caused in its wake.

For the first time since Natalie, he felt some sort of peace. It was strange, yes, and most likely undeserved, but he felt it nonetheless. And while his wolf’s reentry into his everyday life was something he definitely wanted to extinguish as soon as he could, he’d kept himself closed off and hidden for too damn long.

Ever since the night he was turned, Razor had consigned himself to a life of exile. He hadn’t known what that meant at the time. How could he? His family raised their children as hunters—those who picked off otherworldly creatures and earned their keep by selling trophies to the highest bidder. Becoming one of what he hunted had always been a danger—the sort of danger whispered to children before bed along with tales of the boogie man and coal in Christmas stockings. That possibility meeting cold reality was the sort of thing for which one was always prepared but never really expected to happen.

Some werewolves were born furry—others, like himself, received the curse through bites. All, however, had learned to avoid hunters. Just as Razor’s family had whispered nightmarish stories to him to motivate his sense of self-preservation, he’d learned those families raising wolf packs had repeated stories of the same nature to their young, only in them Razor and his kind were the bad guys. It made sense—each family was raised believing the others were the enemy.

Which had made coming face-to-face with his first werewolf a real slap in the face. It was also what had compromised him. A cornered animal, after all, was the most dangerous sort. And he’d cornered the animal responsible for turning him. He just hadn’t been able to go through with it—slice her open and make a pelt out of her skin. When he’d found her—a redheaded teenager whose name he later learned was Michelle—her eyes were wide, her lips quivering, rivers of tears scalding down her cheeks, her legs shaking so hard she could barely keep herself upright. He hadn’t been able to raise his rifle, let along pull the trigger. How could he?

He wasn’t a monster.

Ultimately, Razor’s hesitation had both saved and ended his life. Michelle had shifted into the beast he knew she was and lunged before he could blink, her incisors digging into his shoulder. The scream he’d released that night had been a marriage of pain and terror. For whatever reason, he accepted then she wouldn’t kill him. Something in her eyes had spoken plainly she wasn’t the type to draw blood. What happened to him was the result of desperation and the need for survival.

No, Razor had known the second the wolf’s fangs touched his blood he was as good as dead to his family. He’d managed to find his sister Harlee and tell her what had happened…only to stare down two extraordinarily long barrels of a shotgun, his trembling sister crying and telling him she loved him.

Kill him she couldn’t. But she could tell the others. And they could kill him for her.

Those days after his family declared him an enemy remained a blur. Were he to go back, Razor somewhat doubted he’d be able to retrace his steps and come out as well-adjusted as he was now. Yet somehow he’d made it through the fire, brushed himself off, fell in with the right people and reintegrated into society. He discovered support groups for wolves who had been forcibly inducted into the fold rather than born into it, learned the tricks of the trade and managed to form a new life.

A life where he abandoned the family business and went into music, as was always his ambition. And then he began taking gigs in bars, clubs and on the occasional campus. At one such gig he’d met Natalie. He had no way of knowing that his family had recruited her to hunt him down. And now, far removed from what had happened, revisiting those days as an older, wiser man, Razor believed Natalie hadn’t realized how hard it would be to kill someone once they were intimate. Too many of their early relationship conversations had been real; at least, it was easier for Razor if he assumed a part of her had loved him, because no matter what had happened between them, he still couldn’t dismiss his feelings for her. He supposed that was why her betrayal hurt so much.

In the end, it came down to him or her. Natalie preparing to send poisonous silver bullets ravaging through his body or Razor’s inner animal ripping outward and screaming for a fight. The animal won, though the aftermath had all but destroyed him.

At first he’d convinced himself losing control of his wolf was a freak accident. It wasn’t until Raegan, Natalie’s friend and roommate, cornered him and began barking off questions he knew she didn’t mean to be accusatory that he felt the animal roaring upward again. Since that night, Razor had learned to master his body’s reactions to fear and anger. He’d been told by the people who had sheltered him that part of his problem was he wasn’t born a lycan, and therefore had skipped those crucial years during which other werewolves were taught how to temper themselves. He’d had to pack in a lifetime’s worth of training in two years, and it was no small wonder he’d lost control so splendidly.

This, of course, didn’t matter to the authorities, or Natalie’s family, or those lycans who heard what happened through the grapevine. No one save a precious few knew the whole story. One of those few was Aria. Without her, Razor didn’t want to think where he’d be.

The past few years had been a testament to solitude. Aside from the guilt that ravaged his conscience every time his mind flashed to the unforgiving scene of Natalie’s bleeding, broken body came the terrifying knowledge he didn’t know who in the world he could trust. Natalie being a plant from his unforgiving family hadn’t been in the brochure. Razor had only recently reintegrated into life beyond Aria’s coven, and had done so knowing those enemies he made in his past wouldn’t forget his sins any sooner than he would.

Granted, serving as the lead singer for an increasingly popular band wasn’t the stealthiest vocation he could select, but with luck—no small thanks to Aria’s protection spells and his refusal to play gigs outside the club itself—he hadn’t yet run into any trouble. Hiding in plain sight, Aria called it. As it was, the success of Razor’s Edge hadn’t been anticipated.

Ginny had thrown everything upside down, and he had no idea how or why. Years of going without a shift—without succumbing to his inner animal—gone in a blink. What he felt around her was raw and real, damn near primitive. A deep-seated need burned in his chest. He didn’t know what it was and he was afraid to trust it.

Going without sex for so long had definitely been a mistake. Yet that didn’t explain how kissing Ginny once had managed to unwind him so thoroughly. Whatever sparked between them hadn’t been there beyond regular attraction until the moment his lips first touched hers. It was unlike anything he’d experienced with or before Natalie—a burning need in his chest, a pain in his gut, a desire beyond his reckoning to keep touching her and never stop. And he knew without asking it had surprised Ginny as well. Something told him they were more alike than they thought.

And still, though his blood rushed with anticipation and his dick was hard just by the sheer proximity of her body to his, the urgency he’d felt earlier had faded to a more agreeable calm. As though the wolf inside him was satisfied merely at having her near.

Razor had never bothered to look into how lycan sexual relationships differed from humans’. Perhaps he ought to rectify that. If he got his way, Ginny wouldn’t be going anywhere for a long time…no matter the effect she had on him or his ability to focus. He’d felt more alive today than he had since Natalie’s death, and he intended to keep it that way.

In the meantime, he was content to sleep beside her.

* * * * *

Ginny awoke with a brick wall of a male chest against her back, a hand at her breast and a hot, hard cock sliding up and down her pussy lips. She barely had time to blink before a mouth was at her throat, peppering soft kisses into her skin.

A sliver of cold terror shimmied down her back.
What?

At first she couldn’t breathe, her heart slamming so fiercely against her chest it ached. Ice pierced through her veins, her temples pounding and a wave of nausea stretching through her insides. She’d had dreams like this. Dreams where she awoke in Travis’ bed with Travis’ hands on her, Travis’ breath hot on her skin as he—

“Good morning,” purred a familiar voice just as his erection began easing inside her body. “Thought you’d sleep the day away.”

“No,” Ginny choked, fisting the edge of the mattress. “Please don’t…”

The resulting silence told her if her words had been a two-by-four, the man behind her would be strewn across the floor. As it was, he was still for all of half a beat before tearing away from her. The bed lifted and a wave of cool air washed over her back. Ginny blinked numbly, her hold on the mattress relinquishing.

In her dreams, Travis never let her go. She inhaled deeply and rolled over.

Razor stood in the corner, his back to her, hard breaths coursing through his body.

Razor.

“Oh God,” Ginny said, sitting up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

He held up a hand without turning around. The harsh pants tearing through his mouth didn’t come any easier. Every inch of his hard body looked strained, as though he were seconds from leaping over the edge of control.

A few things happened at once—memories from the previous day flooded inward, complete with what had transpired after she arrived home. Razor had stayed. He’d found her in the tub and he’d stayed. Moreover, he had stayed because she’d asked him to.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I thought you were… I forgot.”

Razor didn’t budge and she could only guess why. Inviting a man over to her one’s house, begging them to stay the night, going to sleep naked, then acting like a freak the next morning when he initiated the expected sex was one hell of a mixed signal. If she tried to explain…

Well, she couldn’t apologize for things she couldn’t change. Razor didn’t know about Travis—no one save her parents did, and only her mother believed her. But even if he did, or even if her history with Travis wasn’t a factor, waking up in bed with a virtual stranger and his erection sliding into her body was the sort of thing she felt should be discussed before the fact, not after.

Ginny wet her lips and crossed her arms. “I’ll—ahh, I’ll just get dressed,” she said. “You can show yourself out.”

Razor inhaled and turned around, and the look on his face would have stolen her breath if she didn’t already feel winded. His large, expressive eyes were filled with a mixture of pain and fury. His brow had furrowed and his sensuous lips were curled into a dangerous sneer.

“Someone hurt you,” he said.

Ginny fidgeted. “Is it so hard to believe I’d like to be consulted before you fuck me?”

“Answer me.”

“Why? The answer doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t invite you to stick your dick in me whenever you choose. I invited you to stay the night.” Her cheeks burned with heat in contrast to the cool air. “So back the fuck off.”

She broke eye contact and stormed over to the closet without another word. Having this discussion while standing naked with the man she would much rather throw herself at was a little disconcerting. Her body was primed and ready by his mere proximity. Her nipples ached for his touch, her legs felt wobbly and there was enough wetness pooling between her thighs to set sail. Still, she wasn’t wrong in what she said and refused to justify herself by digging up skeletons, despite the fact the skeletons had never been satisfactorily buried.

She didn’t need a reason.

Ginny stayed in the closet long enough to wrangle into a pair of jeans and an oversized Pink Floyd t-shirt. She rummaged much longer than she searched, her mind running a mile a minute, biding time and trying to calm. Though she didn’t hear anything, she assumed Razor would have stormed out. Justified outrage or not, the last thing he needed was to dive headfirst into her drama.

Thus she was surprised to find him exactly where she’d left him, only he’d had the common sense to wiggle into his jeans. His chest remained tantalizingly bare.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Though the storm in his eyes had not settled, his body language had shifted demonstrably. “I didn’t come over here for that.”

Ginny crossed her arms again and looked away. “I don’t think you
didn’t
come over for that either,” she said. “I didn’t invite you over just to talk. I’m—”

“No, you were right. I shouldn’t have presumed.”

“I asked you to stay the night, Razor. I might’ve been drunk on sleep, but I remember it well enough.”

He frowned. “Whose side are you on?”

“Mine.”

“Do all women change their minds when someone agrees with them?”

“Probably, but I can only speak for myself.” Ginny pressed her lips together and tried to meet his gaze. Her eyes couldn’t seem to hold whenever they locked with his. “At any rate, would you like some coffee?”