Insatiable Craving: 2 (Insatiable Nights) (4 page)

It was just a building.

Ginny stuffed her hands in her jean pockets and hurried through the front door. It was lighter inside but darker at the same time—without strobe lights pulsating to the persistent thump of music, the interior likewise seemed less mystifying. It struck her as the same psychological effect of having one’s beer goggles firmly removed and replaced with the cool lens of reality.

The floor was decorated in a pattern of scuff marks. A few cigarette butts littered the space near the stage. One abandoned glass of beer sat half full on an amplifier. Weak light filtered from the fairly regular overheads, stripping the club to its bare essentials.

Seemed there were actual tables near the back, even a few booths near a smaller bar by the fire exit. Ginny’s eyebrows perked. She had never noticed that before.

“Can I help you?”

A shrill gasp escaped her throat. She leapt about a mile in the air, whirled around and came face-to-face with Razor himself.

“Oh my God!” Ginny squealed, slapping a hand across her heart. “You need a little bell around your neck, you know that?”

A small grin tickled his lips, which somewhat nullified the immediate mortification that flooded her system.

“Not a bell kind of guy, I’m afraid. What can I do you for?”

Ginny’s mouth ran dry. “What?”

“Sorry. What can I do for you?”

Good
lord
, such a loaded question. Her mind was frazzled and distracted, on complete overload from just the hint of his proximity. Damn it, he was just as pretty as he was at night. No, strike that. Prettier. At night he stood in a sea of smoke machines and strobe lights, and could only really be spotted through the cracks between his screaming fangirls. Up close, Ginny could take in his appearance in ways she never would have imagined or known to miss with so much space strung between them.

The scar that ran from the corner of his right eye over the bridge of his nose and down his left cheek was deeper than she realized and most definitely not fake. Not an addition to an otherwise beautiful canvas to make him seem more dangerous, even deadlier, and thereby tap into the bad boy fixation. No, who or whatever had caused that beauty mark had meant business. Though Ginny couldn’t automatically determine whether he’d been in an unfortunate accident or the target of a knife-wielding maniac, she could definitely see the line itself was straight and clean.

The scar did little, however, to diminish his ethereal beauty. The eyes she had always assumed were decorated in eyeliner looked untouched by makeup but no less dark and dangerous. A healthy smattering of whiskers—a day or so before maturing into an all-out beard—stretched across his chin and disappeared somewhere down his neck. His hair, shaggy and somewhat unkempt, seemed to know exactly which way to fall to give his face the best possible angle. His shoulders were broad, and where the sleeve of his black tee cut off, she could see his muscles were well defined.

A sound that might have passed for a sigh tickled her lips. Ginny shook her head—though not sure at whom—and managed a few steps back as though afraid her female hormones would have her jumping his hotness just because he was so damn close. As it was, she felt something twinge between her legs—something she hadn’t felt since well before the incident with Travis.

Holy moly, she was wet. From Razor. From just
looking
at Razor.

The realization nearly knocked her off her feet.

After a few more mortifying seconds, when she remembered she had a voice and he was likely expecting her to answer his questions, she braved another look at his face and opened her mouth to speak. Razor’s brow was furrowed, his nostrils slightly flared and something intense was happening behind those shimmering eyes.

“I-I—” Ginny took a step back, her nerves coiling around her arms and legs, winding her up tighter than a freaking snare drum. “I was looking… Ummm, see, something… I was here last night.”

“Yes,” Razor agreed, recovering one of the spaces she’d put between them. “I remember you.”

“Y-you do?”

“You’re in here most nights, aren’t you?”

“I— Ahh, yes, but it’s not what it sounds like.”

He arched an eyebrow, a smile flirting with that dangerous mouth of his. “So you don’t come because you like the music?” he asked, stepping forward again.

“No, I mean yes. I do. But I’m not…one of
those
people.”

“What? A fan?”

“No, I am—I don’t know what I’m saying right now.” Ginny’s feet continued their backward course, taking her to parts of the club she hadn’t seen up close before. For every space she put between them, Razor put it behind them. Her inner warning system—the same one that flared to dangerous proportions whenever she found herself in a bad part of town after the sun had set, the same one that had deafened her when Travis locked his front door and shut the blinds—refused to kick in. All she heard was her pulse hammering in her ears and her heart thundering against her chest. Her hands, which remained in her pockets, suddenly felt cramped and sweaty. She drew them out and flexed her fingers, walking back still until her spine met the unforgiving surface of the opposing wall.

Then something resembling actual fear shimmied up her spine. It did nothing, however, to calm the fire between her legs, or how slick and ready she felt. For the first time in months, her clit ached, desperate for some attention. The rest of her treacherous body had warmed and relaxed, all save her mind, which couldn’t stop running through the horror slide show of memories detailing what had happened the last time she’d been alone with a strange man.

Alone.

Something happened then. Razor stopped moving, his brows furrowing in what might have passed for concern. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she said, unthinking.

His frown deepened. “I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back once, twice, a full three times to give her some much-needed breathing room. “I just…sorry.”

“For what?”

Razor smiled softly. “For…well, whatever. Umm,
is
there something I can help you with?”

Ginny blinked at him for a few mindless seconds, and then four words she honestly hadn’t meant to say—hadn’t even
thought
to say—found their way up her throat, pressed against her lips and were released into the terrifying
out there
before she could consider the ramifications. Before she could evaluate and determine if she meant what she said or if she had entered some demented parallel universe where fears regarding repeats of past horrors were tossed out the window.

Those four words, four deceptive syllables, were “You could kiss me.”

Razor knew he was staring, but he didn’t give a damn.

This was bad. All kinds of bad. If not for the warning bells deafening his ears, then definitely for as tense as he was. That certain something he’d felt for her the second his gaze landed on her face all those weeks ago—that something dangerous and addictive, that thing he hadn’t felt since the days before Natalie died in his arms—had invaded and conquered the space in his mind. Turning the woman away last night had been simple. Turning her away now, when she was awake and looking at him the way she was, with the scent of her excitement teasing his nostrils, was out of the question.

If he were smart he’d run. Razor had never once been mistaken for someone smart.

Celibacy was damned unnatural. Razor had known that when he made the promise to himself. Yet he also knew the dangers of getting involved—of putting himself out there where lurked a variety of creatures unknown to the likes of most humans walking the earth. Creatures like him. Like the thing he’d become the night of the last hunt. No, Razor definitely preferred his self-imposed exile. He fed his emotions by pouring them into a microphone every night, vocalizing sensations he hadn’t stopped feeling. Couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried.

No woman had shared his bed since Natalie. Sure, Razor had his urges, but it was amazing what conjuring up images of one’s murdered ex-girlfriend did to kill one’s boner, especially when the hands that had ended her life happened to be attached. He hadn’t felt—truly felt—the need to end his abstinence until now.

Until her.

What was it about the girl? She had a sweet, heart-shaped face, full lips and thick brown hair that framed her cheeks and fell nicely down her back. Her chocolate-colored eyes were large and, at the moment, wide. He could hear her heart pounding, felt the racing echo of her pulse. He sensed her worry and her fear, and most of all, felt her heat. She was wet, and from the looks of things, the realization had startled her almost more than his own reaction to her had startled him.

Perhaps that was it then. Her eyes told a story the rest of her did not. Someone had wronged her and bad. Someone had done something to her that made her hesitate before she did anything one might consider normal. Hell, he’d bet money coming to the club at all to hear him perform was about as wild as she got. And after what had happened here last night, she’d come back.

Why?

Did it matter?

Razor took a step forward, his gaze falling to her lips. His cock had hardened painfully and was pressing against his zipper for freedom. Now was typically the point he turned and put as much space between himself and anything remotely female as possible. But she was here now, and she smelled so good and there was no one else.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly, his eyes still on her mouth.

“Virginia,” she whispered. Then paused and amended, “Ginny. Why?”

He offered a small smirk. “Because, Ginny, I find it a little rude not to get to know someone whose tongue is gonna be down my throat.”

And before he could stop himself—before he could even consider whether he wanted to stop himself—he had her pressed to the wall and flush against his chest and his mouth was on hers.

It had been a damn long time since he kissed a woman, and the few times he’d allowed himself to daydream about getting physical with something other than his hand he’d wondered if he’d remember how all the little intimacies worked. Turns out he did, but damn, he’d sure as hell forgotten how they felt. One of the things Razor had learned since contracting his unique condition was wolves experienced everything on a higher plane of reality. Sight, smell, taste, touch and sound—the big five. Foods he loved became as addictive as heroin, smells and sights and sensation…oh yeah. For a while after the bite, before Razor appreciated the full sacrifice that came with being a lycan, he had gone on a sensory parade, determined to drink in as much life as possible.

How he could have forgotten that, he didn’t know.

Yet he knew without a doubt nothing could taste as good as Ginny did right now. With her tongue dancing with his, her lips tearing equally desperate and surprised kisses from his, she provided him the low burn that could persuade a stone-cold sober man into the depths of depravity without a second thought. And that was before he got to how she felt.

Razor didn’t let people near him—fuck, he barely hugged Aria, and she was practically his sister. He’d forgotten how the human body could warm and comfort, how soft and forgiving the female form seemed against his chest. How a woman’s nipples hardened with arousal, to the point where they could tease his flesh even through layers of clothing. He’d forgotten how good a hot pussy felt against his cock, and while he hadn’t been a stranger to the scent of feminine arousal over the years, he’d damn sure forgotten how potent it was when he swam in it.

He’d forgotten the sensation of lust itself, and how intoxicating it felt to dip over the edge.

A growl tickled Razor’s throat. His hands closed around her shoulders, his mouth whispering wordless promises against hers as he delved and explored. Her warm femininity tickled his nostrils and teased his prick. He wanted her hands on him—bare skin to bare skin, flesh on flesh, her fingers exploring his body as his mouth wandered her crevices. He wanted to feel her nipples on his tongue, her pussy around his fingers, wanted to bury his head between her legs and lap up whatever smelled so good. He wanted everything—an explosion of desire pent up for too many damn years and homing in on her.

Why?

Fuck, it didn’t matter, and Ginny didn’t seem nearly as lost as she had a moment ago. Her fingers wove through his hair and massaged his scalp, her other hand braced at the back of his neck. Each stroke of her mouth was poetry against his. She whimpered little nothings she likely didn’t even realize came from her—soft, sweet gasps he couldn’t help but consume.

She was soft where he was hard. So soft.

Razor released her shoulders and snaked one arm around her middle, pulling her tighter against him as his other hand wandered down the sweet contours of her body. He stopped to tease her breasts through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, persuading her nipples to a perky salute and coaxing more of those delicious moans from her throat. But that wasn’t enough, and soon he found himself wandering again, this time dipping low to tug at her jeans.

“This okay?” he asked, plucking at her fly. “I wanna feel you here. Can I?”

She didn’t answer so much as mumble incoherently, but fortunately that incoherent mumble was accompanied by a nod. He stepped outside her warmth just long enough to yank off her shoes and strip her jeans down her legs. He felt her hesitate a fraction, but she welcomed him back into her arms the second he righted himself.