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“I should not,” he said, lowering his head, his gazing falling to her lips. Had he read her mind?
“Please,” she whispered.
She heard the blinds close from across the room. The warrior had not even moved. So much power in this dimension. When the door closed as well, she leaned back on the pillows. “Will you kiss me now, Warrior? Will you let me thank you for carrying me out of that terrible place?” Her breaths were high in her chest. She had not felt the touch of a man in decades, not in over a century, not in this way since the night of her eleventh anniversary.
“I should not kiss you,” he said. “But I think I cannot help myself.” His voice was hoarse and his gaze was fixed to her lips, but he moved very slowly, a kind of lingering fall as he lowered himself to her, planting his hands on the raised bed to either side of her pillow, his hips suspended just above the side of the bed.
She saw only his mouth but coffee swirled around her in decadent enticement, until she was dizzy and so warm and wet between her legs that she was ready for sex without even having touched him. How strange was this? How mysterious? How extraordinary?
As she closed her eyes, his lips met hers, and his breath was all coffee and sweetness with an undertaste of maleness that clenched her deep within and made her gasp. She hadn’t made love in so long yet here she was, remembering the how of it, as though it had been yesterday.
But there was something more, something she didn’t understand while he kissed her. She felt a pressure on her mind and knew it was Jean-Pierre’s touch. Yet it was more than simple telepathy, because no words formed; he was just there and very present. It was so strange, yet wholly erotic. So erotic that she felt very close with just his lips pressed in a gentle kiss. Her br**sts ached and her lips felt swollen and needy. Internally, very deep, she felt movement within, her body trying to pull at something that wasn’t there yet, getting ready, so very ready.
Then she realized that she was a touch away from the pinnacle of pleasure. And all he’d done was press those sensual lips against her mouth.
The moment his tongue touched her lips she grabbed his arms above her, opened her eyes, met his and held on. She cried out, stunned because of what was happening to her. The orgasm was a quick ride over her tender flesh, and a pulsing inside that went on and on. She panted against his mouth.
He drew back, just a few inches. His eyes flared, “Are you—?”
She nodded.
“Mon dieu,” he whispered.
When the spasms ceased she lay back against the bed, staring up at him. Her hands still gripped his arms. She couldn’t seem to let go of him. She didn’t want to let go. “How did you do that?”
He shook his head and smiled that beautiful smile of his. “Well, I am French—”
***
Jean-Pierre savored the hands still gripping his arms, the swollen lips, the flush on Fiona’s cheeks, the startled surprise in her eyes. So his woman, who was not his woman, had just fallen into le petit mort, the little death, a beautiful climax. Mon dieu.
She was lovely, a great beauty with hair like dark rich wood, deep brown with glints of auburn. It hung almost to her elbows in elegant waves. But her eyes, a silver-blue like fine silk, now glittered with passion. Her nose was straight, very pretty, her cheeks round, high, and lovely. Her jaw was a smooth line.
Her complexion was very light, almost porcelain, but then she had been badly used, her blood taken from her, her life nearly stolen from her just a few days ago. There would be more color soon, although the blush on her cheeks just now was exquisite.
He smiled down at her. He wanted to kiss her again, but it seemed redundant.
She smiled in return, her row of even teeth returning. His heart swelled in his chest. Finally, she released his arms and he drew back. But he didn’t move very far away.
Her gaze shifted to the window suddenly and she frowned.
“What is it?” He turned to look outside as well.
“I thought I saw something, a shimmering out there on the lawn.”
A shape materialized. At first, Jean-Pierre couldn’t make it out but after a moment, he realized he was looking at the back of Medichi, in kilted battle gear. Yes, Medichi, although what was he doing out on the lawn? He’d just been in the hallway talking to Colonel Seriffe, but hadn’t he been wearing jeans?
The hairs on his neck lifted and he rose upright.
“What is it?” Fiona asked. “You seem tense all of a sudden. Is something wrong?”
He could not keep his gaze from the sight of Medichi on the lawn. Oui, something was wrong.
He glanced at Fiona. “Please excuse me. I need to speak to one of my warrior brothers. This is not right.”
“Of course,” she whispered.
He did not want to leave her. The urge to remain beside her, to have his sword in his hand as he watched over her, was profound. But he had to go.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to move.
Once in the hall, the hairs rose again: Medichi was still in the hall talking to Seriffe, and yes, he wore his jeans. So what was that on the lawn? Jean-Pierre called sharply, “Medichi, where is your woman?”
He frowned. “What? Parisa? I’m not sure. He looked around. I think she was headed toward the lobby with Havily.”
“Find her at once. Something is wrong. I saw you just now on the front lawn.”
“You what—?”
He shook his head. “I do not know what I was looking at, because here you are.”
Medichi looked the opposite direction. “Hologram,” he cried. He did not say a word to Colonel Seriffe but began to run.
Jean-Pierre, his instincts burning, hurried back to Fiona’s bedside. He moved between her bed and the window.
And yes, he folded his sword into his hand and stared at what must be an imposter—or a dreaded hologram—out on the lawn.
***
Parisa left the hospital by the front sliders because she saw Antony halfway down the greenbelt, his hands on his hips. He had changed into kilted battle gear and looked around as if trying to figure something out.
“Antony,” she called to him. “What are you doing?”
He turned to face her and waved her forward.
Strange.
She had an appointment in half an hour with the officer in charge of the Militia Warrior Training Camps, Female Division, and she didn’t want to be late. She decided to work on her folding skills instead of just walking to Antony’s position.
But as she thought the thought and entered nether-space, she could have sworn she heard Antony behind her crying out, “Noooo!”
