Page 15

I don't refuse it.

After that the careful part goes.

Her hands find the front of my jacket and I don't stop her, or when she gets to the shirt beneath. Then her palms come flat against my chest and stop there, and I hear her breathing change when she feels what the markings are doing. They run from my temple down my throat and out across both shoulders, and they are warm now, and darker than she has ever seen them, and moving — slowly, the way heat moves through metal.

"That isn't —" She can't finish it.

"Jalshagar." The word arrives at last. "It's the bond. That's what it looks like when it's answered."

"Answered."

"You've had it for days," I tell her. "I've had it since the relay. One-directional, until it isn't."

Whatever she meant to say to that, she doesn't.

I get my hands into her hair and take the tie out, because I have wanted to do that since a corridor on Sublevel Twelve, and it comes down heavy across my knuckles. Her jacket. The layer beneath. She is smaller out of gear than in it, and warmer, and a fine tremor runs through her that the cold is not causing.

I am careful of the knee. Of nothing else. I am careful of the knee. Of nothing else.

Claire catches my shirt and pulls me back to her before I can think myself out of it. The second kiss is not a question; it is a collision. Her mouth opens beneath mine, her tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that mirrors my own, erasing the last of the uncertainty between us. Her hands slide beneath my shirt, her palms hot and urgent against my skin. The moment she touches my chest, the Jalshagar markings flare—not just a glow, but a searing, rhythmic heat that pulses in time with the thudding of my heart.

She stills for a heartbeat, her breath hitching.

The bond answers through both of us at once, her shock bleeding into my desire. I feel the tremor that runs through her as my hand settles at the curve of her waist, the rush of heat as I haul her flush against me, feeling the hard press of her breasts against my chest and the desperate alignment of our hips.

"Darius," she whispers, her voice a wrecked, needy sound.

"Tell me if your knee hurts."

"I will," she gasps, already pulling at the buttons of my shirt.

I free her hair from its tie, letting the dark waves spill across my hands, and bury my face in the crook of her neck. I kiss the sensitive line beneath her jaw, my teeth grazing her skin, while she shoves my shirt off my shoulders. When her lips find the markings at my throat, the sensation is doubled—a physical spark and a psychic surge that makes my breath falter and my vision blur.

By the time our jackets are spread over the narrow bench and the hard stone floor, the clothes between us have become intolerable obstacles. I strip her with a frantic efficiency, my hands trembling as I slide the fabric down her legs, avoiding the injured knee. When she is finally bare beneath me, the sight of her—pale skin against the dark fabric, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling—nearly breaks my resolve.

Claire looks at me, her eyes dark and blown wide with lust.

"I want this."

The bond screams it. She wants me inside her, now.

I lower her onto the jackets, carefully supporting her injured leg and bending her good knee beside me, keeping my weight braced on my elbows so I don't strain her joint. The room is too small, the stone too cold, but the heat radiating from her skin turns the air thick and heavy.

For several seconds, I simply hold myself over her, my cock throbbing and hard, grazing against her thigh. I can feel the dampness of her, the scent of her arousal filling my senses.

Claire's hands move along my ribs, her nails digging into my skin, drawing me down.

I kiss her again, but it is no longer a prelude. It is a claim. Our bodies shift, grinding together as we find a position that protects her knee without sacrificing an inch of contact. Her hair spreads dark across my jacket, and as I slide my hand down between her legs, finding her already slick and swollen, she lets out a sharp, broken moan.

When I finally push into her, the sensation is overwhelming. Claire's breath catches, her head snapping back against the jacket.

I stop immediately, frozen by the fear that I've hurt her.

Her fingers tighten on my back, pulling me deeper.

"Don't," she whimpers. "Don't stop."

I lift my head. Her eyes are fixed on mine, shimmering with intensity. The bond carries the answer: no fear, no hesitation, only the staggering pressure of adjusting to my size and the raw determination that I not mistake her gasp for regret.