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“It’s never done anything to anyone before.”
“Well, I saw what it did to that poltergeist, and I don’t want the same treatment.”
“Are you telling me you’re a poltergeist?”
He chuckled as he shifted his hand so he could stroke the inside of my wrist. The touch was innocent—he wasn’t rubbing anything intimate—and yet I could feel it rush through me as if his fingers were between my thighs. “What do you think?”
“I’ve never seen a poltergeist act like you.” I frowned as I tried to make my brain work despite how he touched my wrist, despite how he crowded me and made me want to arch against him. “And you weren’t able to enter my house without my invitation, at least not easily. Plus my secretary could see you.”
He traced my bottom lip with the edge of his warm tongue, and Itastedflames. “You don’t invite poltergeists into your bed?”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“You did, just not with words.”
“That’s what people with boundary issues say.”
He curled his lips into a grin before he bit down softly on my bottom lip, a sting of pain that made me arch up, that made me press my pelvis to him in a blatant and desperate offer. So, he wasn’t wrong.
I did want him, more than I might have ever wanted anything else.
And it stilled me for one moment. “Are you an incubus?” The thought he might be causing this reaction in me, that I might be being played by him, managed to snuff out the desire for a moment.
“No, I’m not an incubus, and I haven’t forced you to feel anything.”
“So whatareyou doing here?”
He pushed up enough to trace his gaze down my body, and despite me wearing pajamas—these ones with cartoon coffee mugs—he stared as if I were clad in expensive lace lingerie. “I’m sure you can figure that out. Are there many reasons a man would be on top of you in your bed?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You aren’t a man.”
“Maybe not.” He rocked his hips forward, and I shivered at how his hard cock rubbed against me. “Though I think I’m man enough for you.”
I set my hands on his chest and pushed, surprised to find again just how solid he was. He didn’t have any fat on his body, as if every single inch were firm muscle. That sort of body was inhumanly strong.
Damn it.I had stopped pushing and instead curled my fingers in as though to grip his pecs.
The warmth of his tattoos drew me, as well. The skin was raised over them, and I swore the black marks were a good ten degrees warmer than the rest of his already-heated body. They pulsed beneath my palms as if currents moved through them.
It made me recall the smoke that had poured from his fingertips, how the marks had moved on his body as if alive.
“Stop thinking,” he whispered before leaning closer and brushing his lips to mine. More of that wonderful taste filled my senses. It was heat and danger and darkness.
Whatever he was stopped mattering. I saw spirits. A werewolf lived next door. A vampire kept screwing with my life. Who the hellcaredwhat Hunter was? If he wanted to kill me, well, he’d had plenty of opportunities for that well before my pants ever came off, so worrying about it didn’t matter.
I slid my hands around his impressive chest, over his sides, then dug my fingers into his back as I returned the kiss.
Hell, forgetreturned. I deepened it, wanted more,demandedmore. I wasn’t a passive woman, hadn’t ever been someone willing to accept whatever I was given. When I teased my tongue across his full bottom lip, he parted for me, and it was like tasting brimstone itself. Heat, smoke, fire—it all felt as though it could consume me, and I’d happily accept it.
He groaned and dragged his hand down my throat and over my collarbone. He slipped the thin strap down to bare my breast, and his rough palm scraped against my nipple.
Something about seeing ghosts, about knowing there was more to a person than their body, had always made me worry less about how mine looked.
It was a detriment at times when I didn’t care about dressing up, but it helped in sex. I didn’t give a fuck if my hips were perfect or my breasts perky or my waist small enough. My thighs spread out when I sat because they were thighs, and anyone who didn’t like it could fuck off.
It meant when Hunter scooted down to drag his tongue over my nipple, when he bit softly at the curve of my breast, that I could allow the delicious sensation to wash over me without the slightest concern about how Ilooked.Judging by the cock he ground against me, he liked what he saw well enough. No reason for me to be worried if his dick thought I was fine.
My flesh stung where he’d nipped me, a lingering sensation that said I’d bear a mark. If the mark had been on my throat, or my shoulder, I might have felt differently. I didn’t care for something that others would see, but this felt so much more intimate. I imagined my bra rubbing against the mark tomorrow, how it would remind me of this moment—of hopefully others to come—and it would take me back to here as surely as if he were whispering in my ear about it.
