Page 32 of Jarran

Jarran sighed. “It’s a little too late for it to matter to me. Knowing whether that darkness was put inside me or not won’t erase the memories and it won’t erase the terrible actions done with my body.”

“I’d like to know who did this to you.” She stepped close to him. “Perhaps you can find a way to forgive yourself.”

His hands came to her waist and settled there. “Can you forgive me?”

She smiled up at him. “I never blamed you.”

His mouth came down on hers. Hard. Urgent. Hungry. Those large hands tightened on her waist and tugged her against him, drawing her flush to the hard planes and angles of his muscular body. She didn’t think about it. She didn’t weigh the ethics or the implications or the thousand reasons this was a terrible idea as she closed her eyes and opened her mouth to him. And kissed him back.

She kissed him as though she could shove every ounce of certainty she felt about him through her mouth and into his bloodstream. You are not that person. You are not what he built. You are this and I think I’m falling in love with you.

His hands gripped her waist, spanning the width of her with his fingers pressing into her lower back. She could feel each individual finger through the fabric, each point of contact a line of heat, and his grip was careful even now, restrained even as his mouth plundered hers and turned the kiss desperate.

She pressed into him. Her fingers slid into his hair. It was smooth and thick under her hands and she gripped it and pulled him closer and he made a sound against her mouth, low and rough. He pulled her closer still and she went willingly, pressing further into him. His arms closed around her and the breath left her lungs.

His mouth moved to her neck. Teeth and lips and the hot scrape of his breath against her skin. She tipped her head back and her moan traveled through both of them. His lips dragged lower, tracing her collarbone, and her hands found the hem of his shirt and slid under it. His skin was hot. Dense muscle shifted under her palms. She ran her hands up his chest and heard his breath catch. The ridged texture of the Sifter tattoos was slightly raised on his skin. The smooth plane of his stomach tightened as her fingers explored.

He gained confidence. His hands moved with purpose, sliding down her sides, mapping the shape of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. He found the hem of her shirt and his fingers brushed the bare skin underneath, and they both went still for a beat. A question and an answer, passed between them without words.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted with an expression of disbelief that she was responding to him. That she wanted him. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful.

She grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

He lifted her. Hands under her thighs, pulling her onto his lap so she was straddling him, and the change in angle brought them flush against each other. She could feel the hard length of his cock pressed against her through their clothes, thick and rigid, and the contact sent a bolt of raw heat through her core. She rocked against him instinctively and his head dropped back and the sound he made was something between a groan and a growl.

She rolled her hips again. Slowly. Deliberately. Watching his face. His hands gripped her hips and his fingers dug in and he rocked up into her, and the pressure and the friction through the thin fabric was maddening. She was soaked. She could feel the slick heat between her thighs, and she didn’t care, she ground against him and felt every inch of him pressing against her. Her vision blurred at the edges.

He murmured against her throat. Broken Virilian, words she didn’t know, and then her name. “Evie.” Rough and reverent and fractured. “Evie.” His tail curled around her thigh, the grip firm and warm, anchoring her against him.

He stood up. Lifted her as if she weighed nothing, her legs wrapped around his waist, and carried her to the bed. He set her down on the mattress and she sank into the silk sheets, looking up at him standing over her, and the expression on his face made her heart slam against her ribs.

He knelt on the bed. His hands found the waistband of her pants and he looked at her, holding her gaze. She lifted her hips. He slid the fabric down her legs and tossed it to the floor.

He kissed her stomach. Just below her navel, his lips warm and deliberate. Then lower. His mouth traced a path down her body and she felt each press of his lips like a brand. Her thighs tensed. His hands slid along the outside of her legs, down to her knees, and he eased them apart, settling between them, his shoulders spreading her thighs wide.

He kissed the inside of her thigh. Then the other. Then his mouth found her.

Her head dropped back into the pillows. Her hands fisted in his hair. The sound that tore out of her was raw and unfiltered and she didn’t recognize it as her own voice. His mouth was hot and wet and devastatingly thorough. His tongue worked against her clit in steady, building strokes, and every nerve in her body pulled tight. He licked into her and she arched off the mattress. His hands gripped her hips and held her down, and she couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She could only feel.

He found the rhythm she needed. Figured it out by paying attention, by reading her body with the quiet focus he gave to everything that mattered to him. His tongue circled and pressed and stroked and she was gasping, her fingers twisted in his hair, her thighs shaking against his shoulders. The orgasm built from her center outward, tightening and tightening until it broke in a wave that bowed her spine and whited out her vision and pulled a cry from her throat that echoed off the walls of the ridiculous suite.

He held her through it. His hands steady on her hips, his mouth gentling but not leaving, easing her down while her body shuddered and her lungs heaved and the aftershocks rolled through her in diminishing pulses. When she finally went still, boneless and trembling, he pressed one last kiss against the inside of her thigh and moved up the bed.

He gathered her against him. His face in her hair and his body curved around hers. She could feel his cock still hard against her thigh, and she reached for him, but he caught her hand and pressed it against his chest instead.

“Evie,” he whispered. And again, softer. “Evie.” Her name, over and over, murmured into the crown of her head. The one word he’d never fumbled or had to search for.

She lay in the dark with his arms around her and his breath warm against her skin, her body still humming. The locked door and Durik and the uncertain future existed somewhere beyond this bed. They’d still be there in the morning. Tonight, she was just a woman, and that was more than enough.

FOURTEEN

Jarran woke in the bed with Evie to pain that pulsed through his entire skull. It felt like a deep, drilling pressure, and he couldn’t remember ever having a headache like it. He lay still and waited for it to pass. It didn’t. It just got worse. The pain spread down the back of his neck and settled into the base of his spine. It had to be the implant, which was still active. Durik had said it would be removed, but that hadn’t happened. The device sat at the base of his skull. It was a hard lump he could feel when he pressed his fingers there, and it made the skin there warm. He didn’t know if it was malfunctioning or if it was doing what it was designed to do.

Evie slept peacefully beside him. Her breathing was slow and even, and in the dim light, he marveled at the beautiful female who had allowed him to bring her pleasure the night before. He didn’t deserve her, but if she would have him, he’d find a way to earn her love.

He eased out of the bed carefully, keeping his movements slow, and crossed to the bathroom. His vision blurred at the edges. Each step sent a jolt through his skull.

He made it to the toilet, dropped to his knees, and vomited.