"Watch the monitor," I ordered, shaking him off with a violent jerk. "Just watch the goddamn numbers, Svinton."
I looked down at her. She was writhing, incoherent, lost in the fever dream. Her skin was flushed a dangerous, mottled red, hot enough to radiate heat against my face. The scent of her, blackberries and salt, was overpowering. It triggered a rush of saliva in my mouth, a dark, predatory spike of arousal that made me hate myself instantly.
I was a monster. I was taking advantage of a sick, hallucinating woman who thought I was a security guard.
Do it,the darker part of my brain whispered.Save her.
I placed my hand on her lower belly, right over the cramping knot of her womb. My hand looked dark against her pale skin, the ink stains on my knuckles standing out like bruises.
She gasped, her back arching off the floor. Not a scream this time, but a sharp, startled intake of air. The heavy, warm weight of my hand was grounding where the ice had been agonizing.
"It hurts," she whined, her head thrashing side to side. "Please."
"I know," I whispered, my voice rough. "I’ve got you."
I moved my hand lower.
I passed the curve of her hip bone, the skin slick with sweat. I moved between where Daniel had her legs pinned. I could see everything, the swollen, flushed reality of her heat, the undeniable biology that she had been hiding from the world. She was soaked, the slickness coating her inner thighs, weepingfrom her in a desperate attempt to facilitate a mating that wasn't happening.
I didn't let myself hesitate. If I hesitated, I would stop. If I stopped, she would break.
I slid my fingers into the slickness. It was incredibly hot, almost scalding, like dipping my hand into bathwater that was too deep. I found her center, the swollen nub of nerves that was currently misfiring panic signals to her brain.
I touched her.
Tessa’s entire body went rigid. Her eyes flew open, unseeing, staring blindly at the ceiling. A sound tore out of her throat, a long, ragged cry that wasn't pain.
"Ah! Oh, god!"
"Check the rate," I barked at Anders, not looking at him. My eyes were locked on her face, watching the micro-expressions, the way the tension lines around her eyes were shifting.
"It… it held," Anders stammered, his voice sounding stunned. "It stopped climbing. 182... 181."
"Good," I muttered.
I pushed inside.
Two fingers. My middle and index finger, the ones I used to smudge charcoal, the ones that had developed a sensitivity to texture over years of drawing. I slipped past the tight, cramping ring of muscle and sank into her.
She was so tight it was difficult to navigate, her internal muscles clamping down on my fingers like a vice. It was desperate. It was hungry. She was starved, hollowed out by the suppressants, and her body was trying to devour the intrusion.
"Simon," she gasped, her hips snapping up, chasing the pressure. She didn't know it was me. She just knew the hollowness was being filled.
"Breathe," I commanded, curling my fingers, pressing up against the anterior wall, seeking the spot that would trigger the release. "Tessa, you have to breathe."
I began to move. It was clinical at first, check the depth, check the angle, find the rhythm. I was a mechanic trying to jumpstart an engine. In, curl, stroke, pull out. A steady, metronomic beat designed to override the chaos in her nervous system.
Squelch. Slick. Drag.
The sound was obscene in the quiet kitchen. It mixed with the sound of her ragged breathing and the rain hammering against the glass.
But then, she changed.
Her hands, which had been clawing at the air, fell back to the floor. Her fingers curled, scraping uselessly against the concrete. Her head rolled toward me, her eyes fluttering.
"More," she whispered, the word broken. "Don't... don't go."
Something in my chest fractured.
